


Shelf Space

by Fishwichformylove



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 23:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 69,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6349855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwichformylove/pseuds/Fishwichformylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets, mini-fics, one-shots, drabbles, tumblr prompts, and requests, all revolving around USUKUS. Rating and content will vary with each chapter. </p><p>This work was originally posted on FFN, and once I get it caught up, I will be updating it simultaneously on both sites.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. 
> 
> Warnings: Smoking, Drinking, Profanity

"Hey, Arthur?"

"What?"

It was too dark out on the deck to see Arthur's face, but Alfred could make out the tiny glow of his cigarette every now and then. The bass from the music inside the house was making the half-broken pool chair vibrate under Alfred's ass, and he could slowly feel his legs turn into jelly with the help of his third beer. Or maybe it was his fifth.

"How do you know when you love someone?"

Arthur coughed violently and stepped away from the deck railing, scowling face coming into view from the bleak light in the kitchen. He'd put in his lip ring for the party. It was fake, one of those shitty clip-on deals and Alfred always made fun of him for having it, but now he was starting to think it looked kind of nice.

"What the fuck are you on about? Finish your beer."

"No, I'm being serious."

"Ah, Christ." Arthur let his cigarette dangle from his lips and sat on the edge of the pool chair, pushing Alfred's legs to the side. "This isn't about that Chinese bird you've been going around with, is it?"

Alfred took a swig of his beer to make Arthur happy, but he personally thought it tasted like piss. He didn't like drinking, but he didn't like not drinking if it meant Arthur would call him a pussy.

"Mei's not Chinese. And no it's not. I'm really asking, so don't be an asshole."

Don't be an asshole, Arthur muttered indignantly under his breath, then smacked Alfred's stomach. "What are you asking me all this love shit for? How would I know? Go ask Francis. He's queer on that romance shit."

Alfred set his jaw defiantly. "I'm asking you."

With a heavy sigh, Arthur went back to his cigarette for a few minutes, legs bouncing up and down from the cold. The pool chair creaked and Alfred thought they might bust it, but he didn't care enough to move.

"You wanna know what I think?" Arthur said quietly, flicking a glance toward Alfred. "I think that you know you love somebody when they can come at you with all that shit they say in the movies or whatever and you believe them. Like, they tell you that you're the most wonderful person they've ever met or that they would die for you or that you're beautiful and you don't laugh. You don't laugh or shake your head or tell them to fuck off. You just believe them. That's when you know you love someone." He flipped up the collar of his jacket, Alfred's jacket to be exact, and shrugged. "That's what I think, anyway. Since you're asking."

"Huh." Alfred nodded, but didn't stop staring at Arthur, who was very resolutely ignoring him. He watched as Arthur took another drag on his cigarette, lolled his tongue over his lip ring, bounced his legs some more.

"Hey, Arthur?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, WHAT Alfred?"

"I think you're kind of beautiful.

Arthur didn't say anything. He didn't laugh, he didn't shake his head, he didn't tell Alfred to fuck off. He just stood and dropped his cigarette, stomping it to death on the wood of the deck with his scuffed up boots. Arthur reached out and pulled open the glass door leading into the kitchen, and for a moment before he walked inside, the screaming music shattered the relative quiet.

"Finish your beer, Alfred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is ever interested in discussing this collection, or submitting ideas/prompts, please visit my profile bio for information regarding my tumblr. That is where I am most easily reached. Thanks for reading!


	2. Obedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Nobleman Arthur and peasant/servant Alfred teasing each other, preferably within the context of a magical/fantasy AU.
> 
> Warnings: Some sexual content.

There were two things that Lord Arthur Kirkland found hypnotizing about his servant: he was disgustingly handsome and he was stupid. Perhaps it was only because these two traits were so opposite of any that Arthur himself possessed, and just like anything he didn't have, he yearned to call them his own, even if only vicariously through a low-born lover.

Alfred had come to the manor from one of the small villages, dirty, rude, and begging for a job, and if it had been up to Arthur's head of staff at the time, the boy would have been sent off to the stables immediately. But Arthur had never liked his head of staff very much, so he fired him and took Alfred on as a personal attendant. He didn't need one, and he almost didn't want one, but one look at the peasant boy and he felt he had no option. This was something, someone, he had to have.

And he was disgustingly handsome, even before Arthur had ordered him bathed and dressed in the house colours. All blonde hair and blue eyes and white teeth, looking to be the pinnacle of masculine health; Arthur would have been envious if he hadn't been busy being smitten. Yet for all his physical charm, Alfred was undoubtedly stupid. Not the oppressively ignorant and boorish kind of stupid, but the kind of stupid that made Alfred seem relaxed and friendly in any situation, the kind of stupid born of an eternally sunny disposition. Arthur did envy that, and wished he could be so lucky as to never worry about things bigger than himself.

There was a knock on his chamber door and Arthur jumped, nearly knocking over a candle that he had drawn far too close to the pages of he grimoire he was trying to translate. Before he could even call out and permit entry, Alfred was pushing through the door, carrying a wooden tray.

"You haven't eaten in while. I figured you might be hungry."

Arthur pushed aside his work and let Alfred set the tray in front of him. "You can't just barge in here without permission, you know."

Alfred shrugged, eyes looking tired behind the neat spectacles he had begun to have need for.

Letting his servant's flippant attitude be for the moment, Arthur shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth. He was hungry; starving in fact. If it wasn't for Alfred, his eating schedule would probably be worse than it already was. "You look exhausted."

A sly smile flitted across Alfred's mouth. "Well, I was kept up rather late, milord."

"Watch your tongue, Alfred." Regardless of his position, having it known he had a relationship with another man, and a peasant at that, would make Arthur's life vastly more complicated. He didn't need Alfred being so candid about it.

"That's not what you said last night, milord."

"Alfred!" Arthur screeched, slamming his hand down on the table.

"Aww, don't get mad, Arthur. I'm just teasing you. Besides, no one's around. It's just us." Alfred was doing that thing with his eyes that made it difficult for Arthur to be mad at him, and butterflies exploded wildly in his stomach.

"Fine. Lock the door at least, though."

Alfred did as he was told (for once), then pulled over a chair to sit next to Arthur. He placed a cheery kiss on Arthur's cheek with a hum, then let the young lord finish his meal in silence. Arthur got about half way through the bowl of stew and had only managed to eat a few bites of bread before he found himself full and pushed the tray away. Alfred pulled a concerned face and placed a hand on Arthur's thigh.

"I wish you'd eat more than that. You're getting skinny again."

Arthur pushed the hand off his thigh, but held it on the table, not wanting to outright reject his love. "And you get fat too easily. It all balances out."

"I do not!" Alfred pouted, and his lower lip stuck out so absurdly that Arthur couldn't help leaning forward to give him a tiny kiss. "And anyway, I'm being serious. I don't like it when you get like this." The hand was back on Arthur's leg, another feeling along his waist and ribcage indecently. Alfred smirked again. "There's not enough to grab on to."

Scoffing, Arthur shoved Alfred off of him and took a drink of his watered down wine, his face suddenly feeling too hot. "You can't talk to me like that. You're too familiar."

"Well, I would hope so," Alfred whispered alluringly, then took Arthur's chin in his hand so that he was forced to look at him. "And I'll talk to you however I please, milord."

Arthur almost caved under the defiant gaze of his servant, finding his wilfulness all too intoxicating, but he held his head up high despite the hand still holding it. "I'll have your tongue cut out", he said haughtily.

Alfred clucked his tongue as if to show it off. "No, I thought we already established you like it too much."

Holding his breath, Arthur was beginning to lose control of himself as Alfred leaned forward until their mouths were only millimetres apart. His eyes slipped closed as he waited to be kissed, but the contact never came, and Arthur couldn't let go of his pride enough to close the distance between them.

"Fine. Then I'll do this." He focused himself for a moment and then snapped his fingers, feeling a small burst of magic course through him.

Alfred opened his mouth to retaliate, but no sound came out. A few more tries yielded nothing but absurd gaping and his expression soured as Arthur laughed. Alfred pointed to his throat pleadingly, but Arthur shook his head.

"No. I like you better this way, I think. Besides, it serves you right for being so forward, and for forgetting who's in charge." Arthur smiled teasingly and took another sip of his wine. Alfred didn't understand anything about magic. He was low-born and couldn't even see the most common of garden faeries, never mind the more mythical beasts that roamed the land. It was a point of pride that Arthur could still awe and irritate his lover with his power.

Alfred pouted again, and reached for Arthur. Laughing, Arthur got up and sat across his lap, looping his arms around his neck.

"You're too sweet when you pout."

Shaking his head as if to insist he wasn't pouting, Alfred buried his face in the nook between Arthur's neck and shoulders.

"Are you sorry, then?"

Alfred nodded.

"I'm not sure I believe you."

Alfred bucked his knees so that Arthur was jolted suddenly, scowling even as Arthur was rolling his eyes and stroking his cheek. "Such a brute." Taking the time to admire Alfred's face while he as still and quiet for a change, Arthur ran his fingertips over his cheek bones, down his slim, straight nose and over the soft, bowed skin of his lips. Alfred's eyes slipped closed, and Arthur imagined he would have hummed in contentment if he could make any sound at all. He ran his fingers through the hair at Alfred's temples, letting it fall over his face before brushing it back behind his ears and scratching his nails gently against his scalp.

"You're in need of a haircut."

Alfred gave Arthur a shrewd look and snapped his fingers mockingly.

"No, I'm not going to magick off your hair, love. I wouldn't risk that."

Alfred gestured wildly at his mouth and nearly dumped Arthur off of his lap.

"Yes, alright, I see your point. Still, it is nice to have you quiet for once. What do I get in return for giving you your voice back?"

Arthur had barely finished his question before Alfred's mouth was moving savagely against his own, mostly tongue and teeth and very little skill. Neck being assaulted next, Arthur could do little but hold onto the broad, twisting shoulders as he was unceremoniously lifted and dumped onto his bed. Alfred's hands were everywhere, hot and callused and fumbling, but still enough to make Arthur forget that he was supposed to be Lord Kirkland and that he was most certainly not supposed to let servant boys fuck him, no matter how handsome and stupid they were. Finding his own voice before he could betray his pleasure with a moan, Arthur pushed Alfred's head away and looked him seriously in the eye.

"As long as you've learned your lesson. You do know your place don't you?"

Alfred nodded vehemently as he unlaced the front of Arthur's hose. Focusing just enough, Arthur snapped his fingers again.

Looking up from between Arthur's legs, Alfred grinned toothily and licked his lips.

"It's right here, milord."


	3. With Deepest Apologies to William Shakespeare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High School Human AU. A study of "Much Ado About Nothing" goes awry when it hits a little too close to home. Obviously I don't own anything by Shakespeare, but considering he's well past dead and it's all public domain, I guess it's alright. 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Mentions of bullying, Slur use

Alfred was chewing his pen again. Not "his" as in Alfred's own personal pen, but "his" as in the pen Arthur had lent him during Chemistry lab two weeks ago. It was destroyed on the top, a mass of crinkly plastic and spit, but with little else to keep his attention other than a group presentation at the front of the classroom, Alfred seemed to be enjoying his- Arthur's- pen immensely.

And Arthur couldn't stop staring. Frankly, he blamed the English teacher for his current predicament. The woman had insisted on arranging the desks into little groups, as if her students were seven instead of seventeen, and it made it all too easy for Arthur to tilt his head ever so slightly to the left and watch as Alfred devoured writing utensils, or slept in class, or leaned his cheek into his hand and looked out the window or ran his fingers through his hair or did all manner of absurdly commonplace, but alluring nonetheless, activities. Arthur could almost admit to himself that what had once been a fascinated repulsion had evolved into a rabid schoolboy crush, but that couldn't possibly be; Alfred was good-looking and relatively popular and teased him and treated him like dirt and borrowed his pens without giving them back. There would be no point in entertaining the idea of feelings if they were both unrealistic and unrequited.

The group finished their presentation and Alfred dropped the pen from his mouth and clapped loudly in mockery. He was always acting up in this class. Arthur knew all too well from being forced to peer-edit his essays that Alfred had no idea what was going on half of the time, but the teacher rarely chastised the handsome idiot because he was... well, handsome. And charming. And clever in a roundabout sort of way. At any rate, Arthur had to snap himself out of his daze, horrified to find a tiny string of drool starting at the corner of his mouth.

"Okay, we still have about fifteen minutes left, so let's pick up where we left off in Much Ado About Nothing," Ms. Kale said, and more than half the class groaned. Arthur himself was not thrilled, thinking it ridiculous that they had to read the play out loud in class instead of just being assigned pages each night for homework.

Ignoring the groans, Ms. Kale opened her copy of the play. "Act five, scene two, right where Beatrice enters. Do I have any volunteers to read Beatrice?" She looked expectantly at all the girls, but most of them seemed to be busy looking for their book in their bags or pretending to find the correct page. "Anyone?"

Wincing, Arthur raised his hand. He just wanted this all to be over with and he'd rather get laughed at for reading a girl's part (though it was not the first time a boy in the class had been made to do so) then have to sit through what was sure to be a painful reading on someone else's part.

"Thank you, Arthur."

Most of the class seemed disinterested in what was happening, but Alfred let out a boisterous snigger.

"Ah, good. Thank you for volunteering to read Benedick, Mr. Jones. We'll start with your line."

"Wha-? Hey! I-"

Alfred was silenced by Ms. Kale's harsh look and peered at his book, squinting slightly behind his glasses as he tried to find his place.

"Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?" he fumbled, then muttered under his breath, "Oh God, what even?"

Two of the girls in Alfred's group tittered and Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Yea, signoir, and depart when you bid me."

Arthur spoke confidently. He'd had a few parts in school plays and was no stranger to public speaking thanks to his role on the Student Council. Alfred, on the other hand, seemed to be having trouble with even the simplest of lines, tripping over his own tongue and laughing at himself .

"...thereupon I will kiss thee," he recited, and someone wolf-whistled, which sent the entire class into chaos for a moment until Ms. Kale could refocus their attentions.

Most certainly not thinking about kissing Alfred, Arthur barked out his next line, his voice sounding weird and loud in his own ears. "Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed."

"Oh, snap!" Alfred called and even Ms. Kale couldn't help her smile. Bolstered by the class' reaction, Alfred began reading with increased gusto, even looking up from the page every now and then to look at Arthur across the room. Then he stopped for a moment, reading ahead and then locking eyes with Arthur, a twisted grin on his face. "And, I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"

Something in the way he was being stared at made Arthur think that his in-class observations of the boy had not gone unnoticed. Surely Alfred couldn't have any idea that Arthur made sport of watching him stick school supplies in his mouth or that his fierce blush was born of something other than supreme annoyance. Alfred was denser than cement; there was no way he knew what he was doing.

"For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them." If his voice had sounded too loud only moments ago, now it sounded too high and strained. As Arthur read the next line on the page, he gulped and tried to return Alfred's bold look. "But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?"

Alfred's face fell and, much to Arthur's surprise and confusion, his cheeks and ears started turning red. Perhaps the joke had gone too far now that it was turned around and Alfred was getting a taste of his own medicine. Still, there was something peculiar about the way his voice dropped and he kept his eyes glued to the page.

"I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will."

"In spite of your heart I think; alas poor heart!" Arthur tried to continue reading while still watching Alfred, growing more confused as he shrunk down into his shoulders little by little and bit his lip. Embarrassment seemed to have overtaken Alfred suddenly, and Arthur didn't understand what he could have possibly done to illicit such a reaction.

Looking up again, Alfred gave a half shrug and a shy smile. "Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably."

Arthur forgot to look at his book for his next line. He just sat with his mouth hanging open, unable to look away until the bell rang and he jumped like a frightened rabbit. Shoving his belongings into his book-bag as quickly as he could physically manage, Arthur all but ran from the classroom, bumping a few people on the way out, and refusing to turn around when he heard someone calling his name.

* * *

 

The next few weeks seemed to bring about a revolution in Alfred's attitude toward Arthur. He didn't throw wadded up pieces of binder paper at the back of his head or call him "Queen Elizabeth" or ask to copy his homework.

Instead he started sitting at the same table at lunch, and trying to strike up normal conversation, a task that Arthur found difficult given his sudden and unexplained proclivity for stuttering. Alfred started doing inane things like buying Arthur sodas out of the vending machine, or asking him if he would help with his English homework, and he even gave Arthur a brand new pen after apologising for the abduction of his last one. Arthur thought he might keel over and die at any moment because his heart simply would not stop bashing itself against his ribcage every time Alfred so much as said hello to him in the halls. The mere fact that Alfred was now acknowledging him in public without adding the word "faggot" to the end of his greetings was cause for suspicion.

One Friday afternoon, Arthur retreated to the comfort and seclusion of the campus library, avoiding the after school frenzy and sitting in one of the shabby bean bag chairs in the reading lounge with his headphones on. He waited half an hour before venturing out into the cold, dismayed to find the beginnings of snow floating lazily down from the grey clouds. Zipping his jacket up and shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, Arthur hunched against the chill and started his walk home.

Four blocks from the school, Arthur was frightened by the blare of a car horn behind him. He removed his headphones and turned around, prepared to flip off whoever was driving, but froze when he saw Alfred's beat-up blue truck pulling up to the curb.

"You walkin' home?" Alfred shouted through the rolled down window.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Arthur responded cattily.

"Lemme give you a ride."

Arthur turned around and kept walking. "No, thank you. I'm fine." Even with increase in snow fall, Arthur could feel the back of his neck burning up and he was glad the hood of his jacket would hide his blush.

There was a gravelly sound as Alfred tried to creep along next to Arthur.

"C'mon man, it's snowing! You don't want to walk in this shit."

Turning around viciously, Arthur crossed his arms. He'd had enough of playing games.

"Why do you care anyway! I don't get you! You treat me like fuck all this whole year and now you're trying to be friendly? What do you want from me, Alfred?"

Alfred visibly flinched, but recovered himself quickly. "Okay, yeah, fair enough, but can we talk about this inside the car, please? It's fucking freezing."

Making a noise of exasperated disgust, Arthur resumed his walk at a faster pace, not even completely sure himself why he was so upset.

"Aww, shit," he heard Alfred swear angrily as he hit the gas and caught up to Arthur again. "Arthur, listen!"

"WHAT?" Arthur stopped and flung his arms out, waiting for whatever bullshit Alfred was going to try and feed him. There had to be a catch. Boys like Alfred were not nice to boys like Arthur unless it would benefit them somehow.

Closing his eyes and taking a breath, Alfred drew his eyebrows together in an expression of deep concentration, as if he was trying to remember something incredibly important. Then, with voice, cracking a little, he stared right into Arthur's sour face and began reciting.

"Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter; dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty; beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; no less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; as much as child e'er loved, or father found; a love that makes breath poor, and speech unable; beyond all manner of so much I love you."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He knew what Alfred was trying to say, but he couldn't believe it. There was no way in Hell. So instead of being sucked in by Alfred's pitiable expression, Arthur turned his cynicism to full blast and put his hands on his hips.

"That's terribly taken out of context, you know. It doesn't make sense, with the bit about the-"

"I know!" Alfred interrupted. "But it's the closest to what I wanted to say."

"It's not even a romantic play, it's- "

"King Lear, I know. I had to read a whole bunch of other plays before I found the right words."

"That... must have been terribly boring for you," Arthur said dryly, but his heart was in his throat and he felt light-headed.

Alfred smiled self-deprecatingly. "Nah, some of them weren't so bad. Shakespeare's kinda cool once you get past all the "thee" and "thou" crap. I just... didn't know how else to impress you. Nothing seemed to work and I... shit, man, I really like you, okay?"

Raising up and down on his toes a few times, Arthur puffed out his too hot cheeks. "So... what now?"

"How about I take you home first? Or we can talk, maybe? Not in Shakespeare-talk, but like normal-people-talk."

Arthur contemplated walking away for a moment, then looked up and down the street to see if anyone was around. Reluctantly, but with excitement bubbling in his chest, he opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, shooting Alfred a shy smile.

"I don't think anything about this is going to be normal."


	4. 99 Cents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and England get a little frisky with some red lipstick. If men in makeup isn't your thing, probably not the story for you, and that's okay. 
> 
> Warnings: Explicit sexual content.

"Are you sure you don't want me to help?"

"Naw, I think I can do it. You just sit there," America called from England's bathroom, his voice sounding tinny from the reverb.

England fussed with the wrinkles on the comforter, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he waited for America to appear. He'd wanted this, it was his request, and America had been so kind as to go along with it, but England was still fearful that he would take it badly once they got started.

"Man, I do not know how chicks do this every day," America laughed, and England fought the urge to peek into the bathroom to monitor his progress.

"Just make sure you go inside the lines, as it were."

"Yeah, I know that! It's just weird."

America was quiet for a few seconds, then he whined, "And this is cheap shit, too. You couldn't at least buy something that wasn't going to fuck my mouth up?"

England grunted and rolled his eyes. "Why was I going to spend money on something we'd only use once?"

"How do you know that? We might do it again. We've done weirder."

"Do... do you like it?" England twitched in anticipation when he heard a small click from inside the bathroom and America emerged.

"Maybe. I think I look kinda hot. What do you think?"

Hot was an understatement. England found himself biting his own lip yearningly as he took in the sight of his lover done up with the smooth red lipstick. America had done it perfectly, not smearing or over-exaggerating a single curve of his slightly bowed mouth, and the result was more arousing that England had ever imagined it would be. He wasn't sure when the fantasy had been solidified in his mind, but there was something about the cherry shade that had always appealed to England, something bold and defiant, but sensual. In his view, there was nothing feminine or odd about it, just the highlighted eroticism of America's mouth glistening ruby red from a tube of cheap lipstick.

"That's... yes... uh, yes."

"That good, huh?"

England nodded and reached out for America, wanting to taste the vibrance for himself. America surged forward enthusiastically, and England pulled away, holding his chin in his hand.

"No be, careful, I don't want you to smear."

"I thought that was the point."

England struggled to focus as America licked his bottom lip and the colour became dewy with his spit. "I want it on me, but I don't want you to look cheap. Leave marks, but be careful."

Nodding, America allowed England to guide him into a gentle kiss. There was no aggression, no overly passionate work with the lips or tongue, just the simple pressure of a slick mouth against his own and England's head swam with the knowledge that every second of contact was transferring more and more of the sweet pigment to his own lips. He pulled back for a breath and let America continue at his own pace, moaning softly in his throat as kisses were pressed to the corner of his mouth, his cheeks, and his jaw. America was just about to start in on his neck, hands skimming up and down his sides, when England pulled back.

"Reapply."

"Wha- oh, okay." America's glasses were knocked a little askew and he straightened them to dig in his jeans pockets for the tube of lipstick. "Don't think I didn't see the name, by the way."

Grinning coyly, England took the lipstick and opened it, holding America's face still with one hand while he daubed more of the red crème onto his mouth. It was vain, but part of the reason he had chosen this particular brand was for the name: Redcoat. It was his fantasy, after all, so he figured he was allowed to be a little narcissistic.

Tossing the tube aside, England let America push him back onto the bed, lying still and enjoying the feeling of his warm fingers as they popped his shirt buttons open and rubbed little circles into his chest and belly. More fiery, but neat kisses were trailed down his torso, one around a nipple after a harsh bite, another on his ribcage, another around his bellybutton and more still at every place in between. England was squirming, his stomach muscles clenching in reaction to each feather light touch and he had to fist the bedding by his head to avoid the temptation of pulling at America's hair.

"Take off your glasses," he commanded breathily. America did as he was told, and England felt a rush of raw desire. He looked younger, more tawdry and tousled without the facade of his neat frames, adding to the allure of the tender lips glistening with pigment and saliva. America leaned down to kiss England on the mouth again, this time more aggressively but still cognisant of his orders, and he worked one-handed to get England's pants off. He had managed to get them half way down his thighs when England pushed at his shoulders and sat up.

"I want to see."

After a few moments of fumbling and figuring out the best vantage point, England was divested of the rest of his clothing, sitting in the V of America's spread legs, back to chest, facing the vanity mirror on the wall opposite his bed. He could see himself from the hips up, see every scarlet mark America had left on his body and the slow movement of America's hand as he reached around to jack him off. Head buried in the crook of his neck, America nuzzled his skin, the tickle of his hair making England shiver. England's eyes wandered over the lipstick stains and he panted as America picked up the pace of his stroking. He closed his eyes and tossed his head back, he rest of his body following suit until America was forced to roll out from underneath him.

England enjoyed the quiet and the lack of sensation on his body, jumping when the mouth was back, this time on the inside of his left thigh. America's breath felt wet and hot on his cock but he reached out blindly to stop him.

"Reapply."

America did it himself this time, impatiently, but precisely. England sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, forcing America to kneel before him as he sucked him off. If he had thought the kiss marks on his body were arousing, the flushed imprint on the tip of his cock, visible for only a moment before it disappeared behind crimson lips, was the most erotic thing England had ever seen.

He gripped America's shoulders, whispering half incoherent encouragements, watching as the lipstick and spit left odd pink streaks and rings up and down the shaft of his cock. He wanted to close his eyes and enjoy the sinful textures of America's mouth and tongue, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the stretched lips bobbing back and forth and the wide blue eyes staring up at him with complete adoration.

England felt himself teeter on the edge of orgasm, and barely managed to pull his cock out of America's mouth and get a hold of his chin before he came. America understood what he wanted immediately and closed his mouth, a strange hybrid between a moan and whimper rumbling in his throat as England let his cum drip across his lips and down his chin.

They were silent for a while, England panting and stroking his fingers through America's sweaty hair, and America just sitting back on his knees and smiling even as the cum mixed with the lipstick to produce a thick, pink mess. After he felt strong enough to stand, England padded into the bathroom, motioning for America to stay where he was, and located a package of baby wipes under his sink. When he returned, he wiped America's face and mouth clean of the makeup and semen, clucking soothingly when America flinched because of the cold, damp cloth.

Finished with his task, England wordlessly invited America to lie down with him in the bed, curling into one another despite the fact that England was completely naked and covered in lipstick and America was still fully clothed.

"You don't want me to clean yours off?" America asked, kissing England's hairline and wrapping an arm around his waist.

"No," England replied, and snuggled under America's chin. "I think I'll keep it a while yet."


	5. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request via tumblr from thecheshireandphantom for UKUS after watching a scary movie.
> 
> Warnings: Mild profanity, Mentions of sex

England knew the routine all too well. There would be wailing and clutching and scratching, he would end up bruised and tired with no hope of a restful night ahead, and worst of all, he'd actually have to sit through the type of film America liked to see. Granted, America (the country, not the man, or man-child, as England tended to think of him) had made some decent and perhaps even artistically sound films, but those were not to be the ones England had the privilege of sitting through on the occasions that his complete dolt of a boyfriend decided they should have a proper "date night."

"Date night", England knew, meant one of two things: either dinner out followed by sex, or going to the movies. It it was the latter, there was further bifurcation in the potential outcomes: if it was an action movie, America would probably start getting handsy in the car on the way back and then there would be sex, but if it was a horror flick, as was the case on this particular date night, then England was doomed to become a sexless human shield.

It was actually quite fun to see America overreact in a public setting; in a theatre, his screeches and jumps were shared by the audience at large, and England could people watch if the film was boring, as it often was. There were very few things in the supernatural world that scared or shocked England any more, and even the most high tech and high budget projects did a poor job of capturing the true terror of their all-too-real inspirations. He never told America that, of course, since he did want to be able to live his life without the other permanently attached to his hip in fear, as was the case now that they had arrived back at the tiny New York apartment and England stood at the stove, waiting for milk to heat up.

This was the second step in the routine. Panic was always quelled with something chocolatey: if it was warm out, it would be ice cream in an ugly coffee mug in the shape of Darth Vader's helmet, and if it was cold out, it was hot chocolate that England had to work diligently not to scald and spoil past drinkability. America watched as England stirred the milk, chin heavy on England's shoulder and arms loosely linked around his waist.

"Can you get me the cocoa powder, love?"

America reached over to open a cabinet, but hesitated, fingers recoiling back into an unsure fist.

"What's wrong?" England looked over his shoulder to see America's face going pale yet again and his eyebrows drawn together in discomfort. He clucked his tongue as he realized what had America so worked up, and shook him off to retrieve the cocoa himself.

"Nothing's going to leap out at you from the cupboards, America, I promise."

America flinched when the hinges squeaked and leaned against the counter as close to England as he could. "Shit, don't say stuff like that! You don't know, it could happen."

Shaking his head as he started to whisk the powder into the saucepan, England used his best "rational and soothing" voice as he said for the hundredth time, "There's nothing living in your apartment, love. We've been through this, remember?"

"Yeah, okay. But you'd tell me if there was something, right? You'd know, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would know, and yes, I would tell you, and yes, I would find a way to get rid of it." England was subjected to more back—to—chest cuddling after he located the vanilla extract and put a generous dose of it into the cocoa. "I don't understand why you're so upset over this film. There weren't any monsters or aliens. It was all psychological."

"Ugh, exactly! Demon possession is, like, a whole 'nother bag of dicks." England snorted, not quite sure what the turn of phrase meant, and America whined in his ear. "Seriously! It's not like you can see it coming! There's no warning. You just wake up one day and you're nothing but a meat suit for some nasty spirit thing!" He buried his face in the crook of England's neck and shoulder, having scared himself again, then peered into the saucepan. "Hey. Don't burn it."

"Tch, I'm not! Get cups." England set to searching the back of the cupboard above the stove where America kept all his sugar and honey until he found the bags with three types of marshmallows. He had once foolishly put a single large one in America's drink, only to be lectured on proper marshmallow usage. The big ones were for toasting, and making s'mores and eating straight out of the bag, while the little ones were to be used in hot beverages because they dissolved better. The third bag was an assortment of disturbingly rainbow coloured marshmallows, and England never did quite understand what their use could possibly be, and frankly, he didn't want to find out.

America visibly warred with himself again before gritting his teeth and opening the cupboard with the dishes, reaching in as fast as he could and slamming the door shut once he had managed to snag two coffee cups. He placed them on the counter with a sigh of relief then fidgeted and flailed like he was covered in ants, laughing at himself a little.

The cocoa was enjoyed in silence, America leaning back on the counter and England standing between his spread legs, a position that was bit odd for drinking, but gave America the option of holding on to him every now and then. England took the empty cups and the saucepan and put them in the sink, but America stopped him before he could turn on the faucet.

"Leave it. I wanna... I wanna go to bed."

The third step in the routine was always kissing. Not the passionate, evolving type of kissing that led to sex, but the sugary sweet kind that England found both frustrating and pleasant. It was not an easy task to get into pyjamas and brush teeth and plug in the rocket-shaped night-light while leaving tiny, fluttering kisses here and there, and being repaid in kind, but England always managed it.

At last, America was curled up with his head on England's lap, covered in his "protection blankie", breathing slowing down as the sensation of fingers stroking through his hair lulled him toward sleep. England didn't particularly like having to sleep sitting up, but it was better than the alternative of being kicked or crushed when America would inevitably have a nightmare.

"Feet tucked in?" England asked, knowing how paranoid America got about body parts sticking out in places where monsters could grab them. America nodded from inside his blanket cocoon and yawned.

"Thanks. For putting up with all this, I mean."

England chuckled softly and tucked some America's hair behind his ear. "Well, it's my job to protect you from all the bad things, isn't it? You know I'd never let anything hurt you, not even your own foolishness."

"Yeah, you're pretty badass."

"Oh, hush. Go to sleep."

The fourth and final step of the routine happened without America's knowledge. The fact of the matter was that for all of England's reassurances, he knew he couldn't possibly protect America from everything terrible and scary in the world, whether supernatural or all too tangible and dangerous. A prayer ghosted across England's lips, half said aloud in the glow of the tacky night-light while America snored gently in his laps. An ancient prayer, a charm almost, in a language that was older than England cared to remember.

It was all a routine, but what happened after it was finished was never certain. America might be terrified of movie monsters and scary stories and the shadows of his own childish imagination, but there were things in the world- things seen and unseen- that could not be controlled. That, more than anything, scared England.


	6. Everything's Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College AU. Alfred finds himself giving in to Arthur yet again. 
> 
> Warnings: Drinking, Implied drug use, Profanity, Potential dub-con, Self-loathing in regards to sexuality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter are very dark and will be uncomfortable for a lot of readers, I imagine. I've tried to be thorough and accurate with the warnings. 
> 
> Feel free to skip these chapters. They don't connect to any other story in the series.

"Fucking Christ, WHAT?" Alfred hollered groggily as he threw open the door to his dorm room and glared into the half-lit hallway. He rubbed at his eyes and squinted, focus fuzzy and surreal without his glasses. No one was standing outside his door, which is exactly how it should be at 4am on a Friday night. But it also didn't make sense since only moments before there had been loud banging, and high pitched drunken giggling. Alfred could hear the stairwell door slam shut with a metallic blast, and he guessed that whoever had decided to disrupt his sleep had fled. They'd left him a little gift, though- if an obviously wasted Arthur Kirkland sitting against the wall at a wayward angle with a Post-It note on his forehead could be considered a gift.

Alfred groaned, and a second later, so did Arthur, but his was more sickly than frustrated and Alfred crouched down to look at his face. He didn't stink of alcohol like he usually did, but there was scary, unfocused filminess to his eyes. Alfred squinted again to make out the writing on the Post-It note, then frowned. All it said was "For Alfred, Enjoy!" in all-too-familiar handwriting.

"Beilschmidt", he growled and ripped it off Arthur's forehead then flicked him in the spot where it had been. "Hey. You drunk?"

Arthur smiled stupidly and shook his head "no".

"Yeah, sure. Wait here, I'm getting my keys and then I'm taking your ass home."

"Can't."

"Oh yeah? Why not."

"No keys."

"I'm going to _get_  my keys."

Arthur shook his head and laughed. "No, I don't have keys."

"Gilbert will let you in."

"No. He's not going home. He's got a _girl_."

Alfred swore angrily, then kicked at Arthur's knee. "Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with you, then?"

He was surprised by the filthy giggle Arthur let loose, and it was only then Alfred realized that he wasn't slurring his words like he usually did when he was drunk off his ass. A tiny burst of panic let loose in Alfred's gut.

"What you usually do with me, I guess." Arthur lolled his head to the side in what might have been intended as a coy gesture, but mostly just looked sloppy and stupid. "Y'know... fuck?"

"We don't do that." Alfred's voice was hard-edged and warning, but Arthur didn't take the hint and just giggled again. "What have you been telling Gilbert?"

Trying to stand and failing, Arthur ended up on his hands and knees looking up with an almost childish expression. "Just that we fuck sometimes."

"Shut up!" Alfred bellowed, then hauled Arthur up by the collar of his shirt and dragged him back into his room, releasing him with a shove. The last thing he needed was Arthur waking everyone on the floor up and saying things like that. Alfred had already been in trouble with the RA for a noise violation once, so there was no way a wasted moron babbling about fucking in the middle of the hall was going to put him on anyone's good side.

Arthur stumbled, but caught himself against one of posts of Alfred's bed. He looked offended at the rough treatment, but Alfred didn't care and locked the door.

"We do NOT fuck, Arthur. Do you hear me? We don't."

There was more stumbling and then an awkward attempt at groping. Arthur managed to loop his arms around Alfred's neck, forcing him to take most of his weight. He put his mouth up next to Alfred's ear, breath so hot and wet that Alfred squirmed in disgust. "Then what do you call it when my mouth's on your cock, hmm?"

"A mistake." Alfred tried to get away, but Arthur's grip was too strong.

"You've made a lot of mistakes, then." Arthur said teasingly, pulling away to smirk at Alfred.

"I'm not gay."

"Don't have to be."

"I'm not bi, either."

"So what? It's just fucking. You just have to like fucking to fuck."

Alfred shook his head, trying to keep his anger in check. He had fucked Arthur. Or at least been fucked, numerous times, usually some kind of intoxicated and always with deep self-loathing. He didn't know why he let it keep happening, why he just laid there and went with it, but it was the same thing every time. Alfred would swear he wasn't gay, and Arthur would tell him it didn't matter and then there would be hands and mouths and sweat and terrible, disgusting, beautiful sensations. This time would be different, though, so Alfred changed the subject, gripping Arthur's face unkindly with one hand until Arthur was slightly fish-faced.

"What did you take, Arthur?"

"M'not drunk."

"But you took something. What was it?"

Arthur shrugged and pulled his face out of Alfred's grasp, rubbing at his cheeks grumpily.

"You don't know, or you're not going to tell me?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Goddamit, Arthur, why? Why do you keep doing this?"

"Because I have to feel good _sometime_ ," Arthur spat bitterly.

Alfred felt the pit of his stomach clench in something close to pity, but he kept his face impassive. He couldn't afford to get emotionally invested in Arthur. Things were already complicated enough.

"I'm going back to bed. Don't throw up on anything."

Brushing past Arthur cruelly, Alfred rolled into his blankets and faced toward the wall, squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes that that would be the last of it. It wasn't, though, and Arthur pawed weakly at his shoulder.

"Where am I going to sleep?"

"The floor."

"You're so mean to me," Arthur cooed, as if it were more a compliment than an insult.

Alfred ignored him, but it was difficult to lie completely still when Arthur was forcing his way under the blankets, one hand trying to get inside Alfred's sweatpants shamelessly. There was a brief struggle and Arthur almost fell off the bed before he managed to toss the blankets aside and flip Alfred over so he was on top of his hips.

"Don't you want to feel good, too?" he simpered and tried to wiggle around seductively.

Balling his fists up into the sheets, Alfred looked back at the wall. "I hate you."

"That's okay. I do, too."

Alfred didn't get a chance to ask if Arthur meant that he hated him or he hated himself, but it didn't matter once Arthur's hands were on his cock, pulling and rubbing, too dry and cold, but good enough for Alfred to get hard with little work. Screwing his eyes shut, he tried to feel the pleasure of the motions without thinking about the source. This is how it always was- Arthur would do all the work, and Alfred would just lie still with his hands safely tucked away and his head turned to the side to avoid anything but the most necessary of contacts to achieve orgasm. If he lied to himself well enough, he could almost pretend it was nothing more than masturbation, that there was no one on top of him whispering vile encouragements or moaning or screaming. It was just him and the electricity in his groin and the strain of his muscles and the pounding of his heart in his ears. That was it. There was nothing gay or wrong about it if he pretended it wasn't happening.

He heard fumbling with a zipper and assumed it was Arthur trying to get himself off, but from the exasperated grunt that followed a few moments later, Alfred figured whatever Arthur had taken was preventing him from getting hard. It served him right, he thought, and chewed on his lip to avoid making any noise once both of Arthur's hands were back on him. Somehow Arthur knew exactly what best to do, twisting hand over hand, but without a set rhythm so that each stroke came as a surprise, welcome or not.

"If you tell me to stop, I'll stop."

That was true enough. Alfred had told him to stop a few times before and Arthur always had, rolling off of him without complaint and not trying anything for the rest of the night. Alfred wasn't sure if that made him feel any better, knowing that he could end this if he wanted, but was choosing to remain silent.

There was pause, and then a wet noise as Arthur spat into one of his palms. Alfred shivered when the saliva was spread up his cock, but kept his eyes and his mouth shut. He was fighting to keep his hips against the mattress, toes curling and stomach muscles clenched. Breath was coming hard and fast now, huffing through his nose so that he sounded like a wounded animal more than a man about to tip over the edge of bliss. Climaxing like this almost hurt, not because the feeling itself was painful, but because any pleasure was truncated by the reality of its origin.

Arthur was half grinding against him now, too, and that was the final straw. Alfred's breathing stopped and his body went rigid for a few seconds as he came. He almost bit through his own lip, knuckles cracking as he fisted the sheets even harder and tried not to cry out. He didn't want to give Arthur the satisfaction of knowing it felt good, even though the sticky mess on his hand was proof enough. Alfred didn't see what Arthur did with the handful of cum, but by the time he came around to himself enough to pull up his pants, Arthur was already lying next to him on the bed, back to the wall, with a cheery, vacant expression on his face.

Alfred didn't know what to say or do, so he just stared back, and kept on staring until his eyes felt gritty and feverish. He let out a little gasp and his chest felt tight and his lungs burned.

Arthur just blinked at him curiously. "Are you going to cry?"

"No," Alfred sobbed defiantly, but then he was crying.

His shoulders shook as ugly bleating noises left his mouth and snot poured out his nose and his eyes spilled over with searing tears, and he felt so ashamed that he didn't even fight it when Arthur pulled him close and shushed him.

He felt even worse when he buried his face in Arthur's shirt and clung onto him for dear life in return, oddly soothed as Arthur's cold fingers wove aimlessly through his hair, telling him it was going to be okay even though he couldn't possibly understood the magnitude of what had happened.


	7. Blackbird Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Alfred becomes obsessed with a stranger, and tragedy follows.
> 
> Warnings: Major character death, Suicide, Mental illness, Profanity, Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know. I know this will be upsetting to a lot of people, and problematic in a million ways. But I'm not going to pretend like I didn't write it however many years ago. I'm posting this collection as is, flops included. 
> 
> Feel free to skip this chapter. It is not related to any other chapter in the series.

Alfred's mother had always warned him about being late. _Better late than never, but never late is better_ , she would quote loftily and swat him on his rear as he ran out the back door and hopped over fences to make it to the bus stop on time. But then he'd grown up and moved out and learned how to program the alarm clock on his cell phone. There were no reminders other than a tinny siren sound and flashing and his hand reaching out to make it go away, if only for ten more minutes. Beds were warm and mornings were early, so more often than not, he still found himself running late.

That's how it was the first morning he saw him. Alfred would have never ducked into the alley behind his apartment building if he hadn't thought it would save some time, never would have passed by at just the right moment, and looked up at just the right time, and heard exactly what he'd needed to hear. And he never would have had his heart broken.

The first time Alfred saw him, he was sitting on the third floor fire escape platform, seated on his windowsill, soft blue curtains inhaling and exhaling around him as he played the last few chords of a song on his guitar. There was a small birdcage on a stand with a bright yellow canary inside, chirping raucously as if to accompany the dying music. Time had stopped; Alfred was certain of it. There was no other explanation for the slow, heavy quality in the air as the last note echoed in the alley, or the way everything but the stranger on the fire escape went out of focus, or the force that had compelled Alfred to stop and look up in the first place.

If he had been inclined to believe in such things, Alfred would have called it love at first sight. But love at first sight didn't work like this; it was supposed to be romantic and dramatic, he was supposed to climb up the fire escape and kiss this stranger and then introduce himself and live happily ever after. Instead, he waved and smiled hopefully as the stranger came to edge of the metal railing and looked over the edge. He looked tired, face pale and puffy and only made more so by his black t-shirt and jeans, blonde hair a mess of spikes and flat bits, but Alfred could hear his heartbeat ringing loudly in his ears. The stranger appraised him wordlessly, then turned back and ducked inside, taking the birdcage with him, and slamming the window shut.

And maybe Alfred would have pursued him that first day if he hadn't been running so late already.

* * *

 

He was up on time the next day, ready for work earlier than ever, and yet he still wandered into the alley. Sunlight was just barely beginning to flood the mouth of it, blocked by the two tall apartment buildings on either side, but there were several people leaning out of their windows, coffee cups or cigarettes in hand, all silent as if waiting for something important to happen. Alfred waved and whistled to get the attention of a woman on the second floor.

"Hey, what's going-"

"Shhh!"

"What?"

"Be quiet!" The rollers in her hair jiggled violently as she scolded him, then gestured upward.

The stranger from the day before was crawling out of his window, setting his canary on the stand and reaching back inside to get his guitar. Alfred turned around in confusion as he heard the rustle and bang of more and more windows opening on each side of the alley.

And then the stranger started singing; quietly at first, but stronger and louder and sweeter as the minutes ticked by. His canary let out decorative trills every now and then, but he played on, eyes closed, fingers sure, and Alfred thought there couldn't possibly being anything or anyone more beautiful. The same heaviness and blurriness from the day before set itself like a comforting blanket around Alfred, but all too soon the music stopped and the stranger disappeared again. The echoes of a dozen windows shutting echoed in the alley.

Alfred wasn't forced out of his reverie until the door to the building opened and the woman with the curlers in her hair came out, waddling past in her slippers as she chucked a trash bag into the dumpsters.

"Who?" Alfred pointed vaguely upward and the woman laughed.

"Oh. That's Arthur. He just _does_  that."

"Every morning?"

"Usually, unless it's raining. Such a nice voice." She smiled and nodded, walking back into the building, humming a bit of Arthur's song.

* * *

 

Alfred was early for work for the next three months. He waited every morning in the alley while Arthur sang and played, waited with the other strangers who watched and listened. Alfred had gotten tired of being ignored by Arthur, wonderful, beautiful Arthur and counted the windows on his floor one morning, trying to figure out which apartment number was his. After work he'd sweet-talked his way into the building and run up the stairs to the third floor, counting his way down the hall until he was at the right door. He'd heard the chirping of a bird and smiled, knocking.

Arthur had only opened the door as far as the chain would allow, peeking around the edge cautiously and hunching his shoulders up when he saw Alfred.

"Hi! I'm Alfred. They guy from the alley? I... I listen to you play sometimes, in the morning."

There was no response other than Arthur's curt nod.

"Anyway... you're really great! Like, the singing and stuff. Maybe would you want to, I don't know, get a cup of coffee sometime? I'd like to get to know you! I live in the building right across the way, so we're sort of neighbours and-"

The door was shut in his face.

* * *

 

Alfred started leaving notes and gifts outside Arthur's door. It started with a little slip of paper, some simple office stationery with his name and phone number on it and "Lunch? Coffee? Anything? Call me!" written across it in large, sloping handwriting. Then it was another introduction, longer and on several pieces of stationery. Then it was a tin of cookies, a box of bird treats, a scarf at Christmas, some candy on Valentine's day and flowers whenever Alfred felt like the daily notes weren't enough. Each and every time, he would knock, wait until he heard the rattle of the doorknob, and then run down the hall, and each time he would watch from around the corner as pale, long-fingered hands reached down and took whatever he'd placed there. As much as Alfred wanted to use the opportunity to see Arthur face-to-face again, he knew he had to wait. Arthur would call him when he was ready. Until then, Alfred was content to lean against the wall in the alley every morning, and write love letters to a man he barely knew.

Sometimes Alfred would be running late, and he's sprint into the alley, worried that he'd missed Arthur altogether. But Arthur would be sitting on his windowsill, waiting for him, never starting his morning concerts until Alfred was beaming up at him. Every now and then he'd wave or smile, and more than once he'd come out wearing the scarf Alfred had given him, touching it and nodding his head in thanks. He never said a word, but Alfred didn't think he had to, not when he sang the way he did.

Then Alfred started hearing another voice in Arthur's apartment on his afternoon deliveries. He could never make out what it was saying, but he could tell it was male. The voice was loud and sometimes angry, only pausing when a smaller voice began begging. Alfred listened with his ear to the door, the rumble of conversation punctuated by chirping until one day, the talking stopped and the crashing began. It sounded like glass shattering, and then there was more yelling, and more banging and breaking and the bird was silent and Alfred almost knocked on the door to stop it until it was swinging open and another man was pushing him out of the way and stomping down the hall.

Arthur was sitting on the middle of his floor, broken dishes all around and his face in his hands. Shards crunching beneath his shoes, Alfred walked toward him, putting a hand out in gentle reassurance when Arthur looked up with a flinch.

"Arthur? Are you okay?"

Arthur shook his head and tried to stand up without cutting his bare feet, picking his way over the biggest pieces of glass and ceramic and pushing Alfred out.

"Who was that guy? Do you need help? I can-"

Wincing as his feet were cut, Arthur grabbed onto Alfred's tie and pulled him down for a kiss, then shoved him hard out of the apartment and slammed his door.

* * *

 

Arthur didn't come out onto the fire escape for five weeks after that. No matter how early or late Alfred was, Arthur wasn't there. There was no music, no singing, no bright yellow bird, or bright, beautiful Arthur. The alley was just an alley, not a magical landscape for falling in love, not a place where time would stop.

Alfred knocked and knocked on Arthur's door, calling out to him, convinced he heard rustling inside the apartment, but never receiving an answer. He left letters outside his door, but they were still there when he came back the next day.

He knocked louder and longer, telling Arthur he just wanted to know he was okay, he just wanted to see him, (he just wanted to kiss him and he loved him) and why wouldn't he open the door or sing anymore? A slip of paper fluttered under the door, and Alfred read it hopefully.

There were only two words written on it in shaky, uneven handwriting: " _GO AWAY_ ".

* * *

 

The metal cage caught his eye, so bulky it was causing the dumpster to remain halfway open. He flipped the lid and pulled it out, shocked to see it dented and twisted. Alfred didn't understand. Then he looked down.

A small halo of yellow feathers was stuck to the ground. Maybe the bird had gotten out of the cage and fallen, maybe a cat had gotten it somehow. Anything could have happened. Pets died, birds died, it happened all the time.

But Alfred remembered the fighting and the broken glass and the shattered Arthur and he couldn't help feeling like something terrible had happened, was about to happen. Arthur's bird was dead and Arthur wasn't singing anymore. That afternoon, Alfred slipped a note under Arthur's door that said, " _I'm so sorry for your loss_. _Please call me, Arthur, please._ "

His phone never rang.

__

* * *

 

He was running later than usual. He'd overslept by half an hour and now he was doomed to be more than twice as late for work. Alfred knew he'd probably get fired over it, but he ran into the alley anyway.

Rounding the corner, he heard a scream and sickening thunk. Time stopped again, but instead of seeing a beautiful stranger on a fire escape, Alfred saw an all too familiar body mangled on the cement.

Yellow hair spread out in bloody crown, limbs twisted at grotesque angles, Arthur lay on his back dying but not quite dead in the cold wash of morning light. Alfred fell to his knees and crawled over him, not caring as blood soaked into his pants and bathed the palms of his hands. He almost vomited, but inhaled sharply and fought to stay calm.

"Arthur?"

Arthur's eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy. His breathing was slowing down to a syrupy rattle and he heaved, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Hot tears poured down Alfred's face as he watched Arthur smile the tiniest, saddest smile in the world.

" Arthur, why? I'm sorry, I was late, if I had been here earlier, I could have saved you, I could have stopped you please, Arthur, don't fucking do this. Don't die, please." Alfred could hardly speak coherently, fits and starts of sobbing punctuating his babbling. He could hear the tinny blast of sirens and see the approaching flash of lights. Whoever had screamed must have called the police.

"Please, Arthur, I love you, okay? You can't die, because I love you. I don't care that I don't know you. Just don't die so you can get better and we can try, okay?" Arthur's eyes were shutting again, and his breathing was so shallow and arrhythmic that Alfred knew he was already gone. "I should have been here! I could have stopped you! I'm sorry, I was too late."

He reached out and touched Arthur's clammy cheek, wiping away the blood from his mouth. Alfred leaned over and kissed him softly, tasting the metallic warmth of his lips and almost retching again. Arthur's eyes slid open and he gurgled weakly.

"Better late than never."


	8. Lovebug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Arthur takes a sick day, and his charming co-worker comes to check in on him. 
> 
> Blurry 19 on tumblr requested non-canonverse USUK with the theme of the moment one of them realized they were in love. 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity

_10 min warning: I'm coming over - alfred_

Arthur jolted into complete consciousness, woken only moments before by the buzz and clack of his cellphone on the coffee table. Nearly falling off the sofa as a wave of nausea crept up on him, Arthur scrambled to pluck all the snot-filled tissues off of himself and from the floor and dispose of them in the kitchen, grabbing the two-day old dirty teacup from the table while he was at it.

Panic mode fully engaged, Arthur fought the soreness in his body as he located the air freshener and sprayed it in the living room, then sprayed it all over himself for good measure. Proper hygiene habits had gone out the window in the last 24 hours in favour of cementing himself to the sofa and waiting for death to take him. Going on three days of being plagued with fever, body aches, nausea and disturbing amounts of mucous had taught him that dying would be a slower process than he'd ever expected. Now he was wishing it would speed up so that he wouldn't have to face Alfred while looking so disgusting.

Arthur barely had enough time to swish some mouthwash, cringing at the foul taste of his own tongue against the mint, pull on a fresh t-shirt, vault over the back of the sofa and cover himself with the blanket, heart hammering wildly, before there were keys jangling outside his door and Alfred was peeking his head in with his usual grin.

He only had a key because of the time Arthur had asked Alfred to plant-sit while he went back to London and family for Christmas. It was completely innocent. Arthur supposed he could have just let the silly plants die, but that would have been wasteful, and what was one key among friends?

"Oh, good. You're awake." Alfred uncoiled his scarf and hung it on the coat rack, his easy familiarity a source of both discomfort and secret pleasure for Arthur, who snuggled further into his blanket.

"You shouldn't be here. You'll get sick!" Arthur half-feigned a sneeze to make his point, but Alfred just rolled his eyes and set two paper bags on the table, pushing at Arthur's legs so he could sit on the edge of the sofa. Arthur rubbed at his face while Alfred's back was turned, trying to make it feel less snotty and puffy.

"No way! I'm healthy as a horse. How are you feeling?"

Arthur didn't get a chance to respond before Alfred was placing the back of his hand gently to his forehead. A blush crept up to his ears, hot even through the remnants of his fever, and he tried to pull away, but Alfred pursued doggedly, brow furrowing in concern.

"You feel way too hot, dude. Maybe I oughta take you to the doctor." His hand slipped down to Arthur's cheek, thumb rubbing lightly and soothingly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Arthur's brain short-circuited for a moment and he let loose a tiny groan at the feeling of the rough, blissfully cool palm against his flushed skin.

"Whoa, you're not gonna hurl are you?"

Arthur batted the hand away, moment effectively ruined. Not that there had been a moment; that would require some sort of investment of romantic feelings, and there certainly was none of that going on; none that Arthur would admit, anyway.

"No, and I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much."

"When's the last time you ate?"

Arthur thought for a moment, but couldn't remember. Alfred was giving him a know-it-all look, so he crossed his arms and didn't respond.

"That's what I thought. I brought you lunch. Now sit up so you don't choke." Alfred busied himself with digging in one of the bags and Arthur's nose wrinkled in disgust when he saw the fast food logo on the grease-stained side.

"I don't think a hamburger is going to cure me, Alfred."

"Ha, no. This is mine. I got you that soup from that fruity cafe place you like." He handed Arthur a warm Styrofoam carton and a plastic spoon, then shook a bottle of greenish liquid. "And Gatorade. Drink up."

Arthur bit his lip, embarrassed when his stomach growled viciously as he opened his container of soup. "Thank you. You... you didn't have to do all this."

"Pssssh. It's no biggie. Besides, if you don't get better, I'm gonna have keep covering for you at the office and no me gusta."

"Ah, right, sorry about that. I'm not missing anything important am I?"

"Fuck no." Alfred launched into frivolous gossip about their co-workers while Arthur ate his soup, forgoing the spoon all together to sip it straight out of the container, hiding his smile. He wasn't listening to what Alfred was saying so much as he was watching him talk, watching the stretch and pulse of his jaw and neck muscles, the rapidly changing and dynamic facial expressions, the way he gesticulated for emphasis even with food in his hands.

And then he wasn't watching Alfred talk; he was just watching Alfred. The way he leaned an elbow on a knee as he licked a finger clean of some ketchup, the way he flicked his hair to the side and out of his face every now and then, the way he pushed his glasses up his nose by the bridge and the way he turned over his shoulder and smiled right at Arthur with such openness and warmth and Arthur's mouth hung open in his own dopey grin for a beat before he heard Alfred's question.

"Isn't that hilarious? Arthur? Dude, you okay?"

"What? Oh, yes, haha, um." Arthur put the now empty soup container on the coffee table. "Er, how much do I owe you? For the food and all that?"

"Nada. It's on me." Alfred gathered up their trash and ignored Arthur's protests, going into the kitchen as if he lived in the apartment, too. If he was shocked by how untidy it was by Arthur's usual standards, he didn't say anything upon returning. "You need meds?"

"There's a bottle of ibuprofen on my bathroom counter, if you wouldn't mind bringing me a couple."

Alfred retrieved and handed off the pills, then went back to the door, wrapping his scarf around his neck and adjusting his jacket. "Okay, well, I gotta get back. Break's almost over." He shuffled his feet and patted his pockets, checking that he'd left nothing behind.

"I'll try to be in tomorrow. I'm feeling better, I promise."

"Nah, don't push it. Can I come hang out again, though? It's boring without you."

Arthur stammered, but covered it up with a cough and nodded his head, acting like he couldn't speak through his wheezing. Alfred smiled brilliantly again and opened the door.

"Cool. Get some rest, okay? See ya tomorrow."

Alfred was mostly through the door, inches away from shutting it as Arthur reclined and shut his eyes, thoughtlessly calling out, "All right, bye. I love you."

The door didn't click shut for several moments, and Arthur's eyes flew open as terror overtook him, froze him solid and trapped a mortified shriek in his throat. Then there was the sound of keys jangling again as Alfred locked his door, and Arthur pulled his blanket over his head and let out a whine of complete humiliation, feeling very sick indeed. He was in the middle of praying earnestly for a swift death to take him before tomorrow when his phone started dancing its way across the table for the second time that day. He reached blindly for it, pulling it into his blanket bubble, and flicked it open.

_Ditto- alfred_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter is connected to this piece.


	9. At Second Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prequel to "Lovebug". 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Brief slur use

"This is the boring-est wedding ever." Alfred slumped in his chair and elbowed Arthur. "I mean, who picks a freakin' string quartet for their reception band?"

Arthur stopped playing with the floating candle centrepiece to look over his shoulder at the dance floor. "Well, I suppose it is nice if you want things to be romantic and elegant and don't want people to dance or have any fun." He turned back around and winked at Alfred. "It is Roderich, after all. What were we expecting?"

"Free booze, at least. Who the hell makes people pay for bar service at a wedding?"

"Roderich, apparently." Arthur stood up and nodded his head towards the line at the bar. "I don't care though, I need some liquor in me if I'm going to survive the next three hours of this. Coming?"

"Nah, dude, it's gonna be expensive as shit."

Arthur scoffed. "Damn the price! I need something. Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

Alfred puffed out his cheeks and considered it for a moment, looking around the ballroom at all the miserable people. One of the bridesmaids was sitting mopily at a table, eating her way through the party favour dish of candied almonds.

"How about we play a little game?" Alfred thrust his chin in the direction of the bridesmaid.

"Alfred, no, leave the poor thing alone."

"No, listen. There a lot of single, desperate people here right?"

"I'm single and I'm not desperate."

"No, not you." Alfred pulled Arthur back down into his chair and whispered dramatically. "I say we try to get as many phone numbers as we can, and the loser has to buy drinks."

Arthur snorted, a sly smile turning up the corner of his mouth as he surveyed the potential victims. "That's awful, Alfred."

"You're considering it, though."

Shrugging, Arthur turned back. "Free drinks are free drinks. Who am I to say no to that?"

"Who says you're gonna win?"

"Ha! Fine! How much time do we get?"

Alfred looked at his watch. "Let's say... an hour?" He prodded Arthur playfully in the shoulder. "Or is that not enough time for you?"

A more feral grin lit Arthur's face and he put his hand out. "No, that's plenty."

Shaking his hand, Alfred laughed throatily. "Good. Happy hunting."

Alfred struck out with the first two women he talked to. Well, perhaps he didn't strike out with the second so much as her brother happened to overhear their conversation and swoop in to cockblock him. He didn't even know who they were; some girl named Lilli who looked barely legal and her buzzkill of an older brother. Alfred figured they must have been from Roderich's new wife, Elizaveta's side of the guests.

Luck failed him again when he got stuck talking to the annoying mail room guy from the office for ten minutes. He was babbling on and on about the dinner service of the reception until Alfred finally had to fake getting a phone call to slip out to the hotel lobby and regroup.

Finally, seven women later, his hour was up and he hurried back to the table to face off against Arthur. There was no way he would lose; Arthur was cute and all, but he was awkward around strangers. He did have that whole British thing going for him, but Alfred didn't think Arthur could flirt his way out of a wet paper bag, let alone get more phone numbers. Excited at the prospect of free booze in his near future, Alfred slammed his handful of paper napkins down on the table with a flourish.

"Bam! Four numbers. Beat that."

Arthur looked up, poker face fully engaged. He slowly lifted his hands out of his lap and placed his trophies on the table one by one.

"Five." Giving Alfred a smug look, he pointed to two business cards and a napkin. "And these three are from men."

Alfred had to do a double take and then scrambled to snatch away Arthur's numbers, reading the cards and seeing that they did in fact have male names on them. "Holy shit! Holy shit, dude! How the fuck...?"

"Roderich married a fruit fly. The rest was easy."

"A what?"

"Oh, er, what's the term you use? Oh! _A fag hag_  ."

"What!" Alfred whipped his head around so fast his neck almost cracked trying to get a good look at every man in the room. "Holy shit, why didn't I notice that? Dude! You are a freakin' genius!"

"No, I just have better gaydar than you. Now hurry up, I need a drink!"

Alfred paid for two bourbon and Cokes, head still reeling from having lost and from Arthur's boldness. They sat at the table in silence for a while, drinking and people-watching until Alfred couldn't hold his question in any longer.

"So, uh, are you like gay... or whatever?"

Arthur spluttered into his drink and turned cherry red. "Oh, god, what? I-"

"I mean, it's okay! If you are, or whatever, I just figured since... you know what, never mind. We don't know each other that well, we're co-workers, this is just... unprofessional. Forget I asked."

Awkward silence ensued, but Alfred still couldn't keep his mouth shut. "No, okay I have to know. Are you gay?"

"Would it matter?"

"Kinda. Not in a bad way."

Arthur downed the rest of his drink and looked Alfred straight in the eye. "Then, yeah, I am. What about you? Are you gay... or whatever?"

"Me? Oh." Alfred swished his glass around, letting the ice tinkle and chip against the sides. He knew Arthur was probably just teasing, but he felt compelled to be honest. "I fall into the 'whatever' category."

Arthur got quiet and looked away. "Interesting."

This was bad. Alfred felt terrible and embarrassed and now he couldn't look at Arthur the same way any more. He'd always thought Arthur was kind of cute in that dorky passing acquaintance sort of way; they were friendly, but not really friends. This wedding was the longest they'd ever had any social contact outside of the office, and Alfred had screwed it up. And now that he knew Arthur was gay, it made everything ten times worse. Now he wasn't just cute, but flat out attractive. Maybe it was the accent or his endearing oddness or maybe it was just that he was tall and thin and blonde and Alfred was totally shallow enough to go for that. Whatever the reason, now Alfred was seeing Arthur in a completely new light, and he couldn't turn that light off. He snuck a peek across the table at him, but Arthur was still looking off to the side with a confused and nearly pained expression on his face. And even that was stupidly adorable and Alfred started eating his ice just to have something to do that wasn't thinking about Arthur; cute gay Arthur with his cute gay eyes and his cute gay mouth and his cute gay hair and his cute gay ass and his cute gay everything.

It didn't work. After a lengthy mental debate, Alfred decided to make an even bigger fool of himself and tore one of the paper napkins in half, taking a pen out of his jacket pocket. Writing on the clean side, he scribbled his name and number down and slid it across the table.

"Uh, here. Make that six."

Arthur jumped out of his contemplation and squinted supsiciously at the napkin. "What? Why?"

"Cuz I want us to be friends. It would feel weird now if we weren't, you know?"

"I-I suppose... but don't feel like you have to do this just because of what happened or anything. I understand if you don't-"

Alfred stood and held up a hand to cut Arthur off.

"Nah, dude, I just need an excuse to buy you another drink."


	10. Red Light, Green Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Arthur's morning commute forces him to cross paths with an attractive fireman, and their flirtation blooms over the course of one week. Or if would, if Arthur could get out of his own head.

“Gooood morning! Would you like to make a donation to the firehouse? Just a little change, anything? It makes a big difference!”

Arthur couldn’t help hunching his shoulders up a little as the young fireman bent over and practically stuck his head inside the car. It was too early on a Monday to be dealing with chipper strangers. Handsome strangers. Fireman. Strange, chipper, handsome firemen.

 _Oh, pull it together Kirkland,_ he thought to himself and nodded as he fumbled for his wallet.

“Of course! Uh, here you are.” He stuck five dollars into the boot the fireman was holding, surprised to see only a few dollar bills and some change at the bottom.

“Whoa! Big spender!” The fireman put his hand out, and Arthur shook it sheepishly. “Thank you! I- we really appreciate it.” He gestured behind himself to his co-workers on the wide median strip of the intersection, some of them venturing out in between the cars to collect donations in their helmets and boots.

“It’s no trouble, really.” Arthur was willing himself not to get pink-cheeked. It was a terrible affliction, to never be able to manage his expression or act naturally around those he found attractive. _He's not even that good looking. Plain, even. Just be polite until the light changes._  “How long will you- all of you be out here?”

“‘Til Friday. We need the money… budget cuts and all that.” The fireman shrugged and smiled sadly, then looked up at the traffic lights. “Whoops! Looks like you’re green!” He patted the roof of Arthur’s car and waved. “Thanks again! I hope you have a nice day!”

_Not likely to get much better than this._

Arthur winced and laughed at himself.

* * *

 

“Hey! Back again?” Arthur was shocked that the fireman remembered him and almost giggled nervously. Instead he cleared his throat and reached for his wallet.

“Uh, well, on the the way to work and all that. Same thing every day.” He reached to put money in the boot, but the fireman pulled away.

“No way, man! You already donated. I’m not gonna take more of your money, budget cuts or not.”

“It’s not an issue! I want to give you the money. I mean, donate the money. To the station.” He folded up the bill and threw it at the fireman, then rolled up his window. Arthur pretended to stare straight ahead, but he watched out of the corner of his eye as the fireman fumbled with the money and nearly dropped the boot.

“At least let me say thank you!” the fireman shouted as he tapped on the glass.

“Not a chance! You’ll just toss the money back.”

The fireman’s face lit up with a smile and he scratched his cheek. “You’re too smart for me, mister. But I do appreciate it.” He gestured for Arthur to roll down the window again. “I promise I won’t give the money back!”

Arthur rolled down the window and found the fireman’s hand in his face again. “My name’s Alfred. I’m the new guy, so really if anyone’s going to get fired, it’s probably me. You’re kind of saving my butt.”

_Don’t think about his butt. Do not think about his butt. Don’t._

“A worthy cause if ever there was one.” He’d tried to say it jokingly, but it sounded sexual anyway. Arthur swallowed, horrified as he watched Alfred’s expression change from confusion to understanding. Alfred grimaced and shook his head and was about to say something, but the light changed.

Arthur nodded curtly and muttered a mangled goodbye before speeding off. He could see Alfred looking down at his feet and rubbing the back of his head in his rear view mirror and Arthur started thinking up alternate routes to work.

* * *

 

Arthur decided to brave his usual route on Wednesday. As much as he didn’t want to see Alfred again he also wanted nothing more _than_ to see him. _Make up your mind, you lovesick twit._ Luck was- or wasn’t- on his side, though, and the light was green as he approached the intersection. He had no choice but go through, but he could have sworn he saw one of the firemen waving at him as he passed.

 _It’s entirely possible he fancies men. There are gay firemen. Aren’t there? Yes, of course. There’s gay everything. It’s entirely probable that he… oh who am I kidding?_ Arthur spent a few minutes banging his head on the steering wheel when he’d pulled into the parking lot of his office building.

The light was just turning from yellow as he came to where the firemen were standing on the median strip on Thursday. They had a boom box with them this time, and a few of them were dancing in between the cars as they collected money. Arthur kept his window rolled up until one of the fireman pointed his car out to his companion, and Alfred came rushing over with a smile.

“I missed you yesterday!”

 _Oh, god. Maybe he does like men._ “The light was green,” Arthur said densely, and Alfred smiled even bigger and leaned into the window on his elbows.

“Yeah. Too bad. So about the other day, when-”

“Here!” Arthur shoved another five dollar bill into Alfred’s face, hoping to effectively derail his line of thought.

“You really have to stop giving me money, man. I mean, this is what? Fifteen bucks now?”

“It’s just money.”

“Depriving yourself of Starbucks or something?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

Alfred laughed and put the bill in his collection boot. “Yeah, I figured. You don’t seem like the coffee type. Tea, maybe? Fancy stuff. I mean, not because of just your accent or anything, just… you. You seem like tea. I mean you seem fancy. No, I mean-” Alfred smacked himself on the forehead. “What I’m trying to say is would you maybe want to go get coffee sometime? Or not coffee? Tap water, I don’t care, just… whaddya say?”

 _Nononononononono._ This was not something Arthur had been prepared to handle and he sunk down in his seat, gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles went white.

“You don’t even know my name.” It was all he could think to say.

“You’re right I don’t. Tell me so I can ask you out properly?”

 _Ask me out?_   _Oh, god, no please don’t get red, please don’t panic. No. I can’t do this._

“Green.”

“Green?”

“The light. It’s green. I have to… I have to go, I- goodbye.”

_Brilliant, Kirkland. Just brilliant. An attractive gay fireman asks you out and you drive away. Bravo, well done._

* * *

This was it. It was now or never. Arthur clenched the card in his hand tighter, then thought better of it as it wrinkled. This was his last chance to speak with Alfred.

_Well, hopefully it won’t be. All I have to do is be charming and give him my card. That’s it. It’s not so hard. It’ll be easy. Just smile and tell him your name and give him your card and go on a date and… no don’t think about that. Card first. Card._

But the lights weren’t on his side. It was going to change just as he got there and then he’d have to drive past and that would be the end of it. Without even thinking, Arthur rolled down his window and laid on the horn. Everyone in the intersection was looking at him, but he didn’t have time to care. He stuck his head out the window and yelled for Alfred.

The fireman looked puzzled for a moment, then realized what was happening and ran to stand on the edge of the median strip, a gigantic grin lighting up his face. Arthur timed it just right, and shoved his card into Alfred’s boot as he drove past.

He watched in his rear-view mirror as Alfred dug the card out of the boot, read it, and then fist-pumped into the air. One of his co-workers clapped him on the back and they both laughed.

_And now we wait. Oh god, I have to wait! What if he doesn’t call? What if it’s a joke? What if he’s not actually-_

But Arthur didn’t have to wait long. There was already a voice message on his cell phone by the time he’d pulled into his parking spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about anyone else, but firemen in my area literally do this. It happens a couple of times a year, for a few days, and it's pretty fun to watch.


	11. The Morning After...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU. Arthur wakes up in a stranger's bed and starts to piece together what happened the night before. 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Mentions of sex

Arthur's mouth felt like it was full of couch stuffing. He lolled his tongue against his teeth and tried to keep his eyes open, but even the dim lighting of the bedroom felt like a hundred tiny daggers wiggling into his brain. He hadn't been this hungover in a while.

After a few deep breaths and a slurred mental pep-talk, Arthur attempted to roll over and prop himself up. He didn't make it very far. Lack of coordination was certainly a factor, but the biggest hindrance was someone's arm clutching him around the middle and one of the same someone's legs hitched up over his backside. It took an embarrassingly long time for Arthur to register that he was being spooned by a stranger.

It was even worse once he realized they were both naked.

Panic overrode his hangover and Arthur scrambled out of bed. It wasn't even his bed. He wasn't in his apartment. He had no idea where he was. Looking around the room frantically, Arthur located his clothing and patted down the pockets of his trousers in the hope that he had not lost his cell phone. Mercifully it was there and still charged, but when he opened it, he swore. He had an hour and half until he had to be at work and he had no idea where he was. Struggling into his clothes, Arthur tried to recall what had happened the night before.

He had gone out. It was stupid to go out during the middle of the week, but Wednesday was half-price drink night and Arthur had decided he needed quite a few half-priced drinks. Arthur studied the face of the sleeping stranger as he buttoned his shirt up. He remembered talking to him. He remembered flirting with him. He remembered that the stranger had bought him more than one drink and they'd danced or at least drunkenly convulsed to a beat and he vaguely recalled making out in a bathroom... or was it a parking lot? Arthur couldn't remember how he'd gotten to what he was assuming was the stranger's apartment, but he had a fairly vivid memory of what had happened afterwards. The sex had been good or they'd been drunk enough that they'd thought it was good.

In either case, Arthur still couldn't remember the stranger's name.

Arthur slipped on his shoes and inspected himself in the long mirror mounted on the wall opposite the bed. He felt his face get warm as remembered that he'd been looking in that mirror for a very different reason the night before. Shaking his head, Arthur smoothed out as many of the wrinkles in his clothes as he could. He didn't look great, but his clothes were passable. Mostly it was his face that gave him away. He looked sickly and his eyes were a little bloodshot and... was that a hickey? Arthur winced and fixed his collar until the bruise was mostly hidden. His head was starting to pound and he needed water in the worst way, but he had to get going. He had to figure out where he was, find a bus or a taxi or anything to take him back to the building where he'd parked his car and then he'd have to rush to work and pretend none of this had ever happened. Giving the sleeping stranger one last glance, Arthur slowly opened the door and tiptoed out of the room, digging in his pocket to make sure he had his car keys and wallet.

The keys weren't there. 

"Shit!"

Arthur dropped to his knees and crawled all over the floor, praying his keys had only fallen out of his trousers. He pawed under the dresser and batted aside the stranger's clothes, but couldn't find them.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Desperately, he wiggled under the bed and flailed blindly, but all he hit were what felt like a pair of shoes and some magazines. He hit his head as he tried to back out from underneath the bed and his vision swam painfully.

"Fuck!"

The was some rustling and a groan, and then the stranger sat up and rubbed his eyes. Arthur froze in terror, hands still cradling his head when the stranger looked down at him with a concerned expression.

"Are you okay?"

"Me? What? Fine. I'm fine. I have to-"

"You don't look so good." The stranger squinted at Arthur, then squinted at the mirror on the wall and laughed. "I don't look so good."

"I have to go." Arthur tried to stand, but he'd gone calf-legged and only managed to scoot backwards.

"What's the rush?" The stranger swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood , stretching his arms over his head and yawning dramatically. Arthur was treated to a face full of crotch and he could have fainted.

"Work! I work, I— will you please put some clothes on!?" Arthur scrambled backwards until he hit the wall.

The stranger laughed at him. "What's the big deal? We already fu-"

"JUST PUT SOME PANTS ON!" Arthur's own voice hurt his head and he rubbed his temples. The stranger rolled his eyes, but pulled the comforter off the bed and wrapped it around himself and sat down again. Arthur regained his composure and tried to explain himself rationally. "I have to go. I have work."

"You don't have your car."

"I need to go get it."

"I'll drive you."

"You have a car?"

"Yeah, how do you think we got out of the club last night?"

"YOU DROVE!?" Arthur couldn't remember being in the stranger's car, but he was mortified that they'd driven drunk.

"Stop yelling! And hey! I wasn't remotely as shit-faced as you!"

"That doesn't matter! And it's not my fault anyway! You were the one who kept buying me drinks!"

"Well it's not my fault you're cute!"

That caught Arthur off guard and he felt his face get hot once again. The stranger seemed to have surprised himself as well because he clapped a hand over his mouth.

"I have to go," Arthur said quietly and forced himself to stand.

"No! Don't! I mean-" The stranger rubbed his face sheepishly. "I mean, what time do you have to be at work?"

"Nine."

"I have class at ten! See, I'll just take you! Seriously. I mean, you can use the shower and I'll make breakfast and I'll take you to get your car and it will all work out. Whaddya say?"

Arthur didn't know what he wanted to say. This went against all logic. Men like the stranger- men who were tall and attractive and athletic- were supposed to kick their one-night-stands out or feign sleep until they gave up and showed themselves out. But the stranger was looking at him with such genuine interest that Arthur was flattered in spite of himself, and horrified that he couldn't remember his name. He grappled at the one detail he could wrap his sluggish brain around.

"Class? How old are you?"

The stranger's face fell and he held the blanket tighter against himself. "Legal, if that's what you're worried about."

"That's not very specific."

"Old enough to drink."

"You could fake that."

"Fine, then how old are _you_?"

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes in response.

"Uh huh. Look. I'm trying to be a good guy here. I'm not gonna kick you to the curb. Okay, Arthur?"

"Shit." Arthur's embarrassment inflated exponentially. The stranger gave him an odd look and then smirked.

"So, the bathroom is the door to the left, _Arthur_. Feel free to look for anything you need in the medicine cabinet, _Arthur_. I think there might even be an unopened toothbrush in there, _Arthur_. Go ahead. I'll make breakfast. _Arthur_."

"Yes. All right. You win," Arthur said in a small voice and made a hasty exit to the bathroom. He locked himself inside and took a deep breath. A shower and some food would be a wonderful right now, but he didn't know how much longer he could stand being humiliated.

The medicine cabinet was open, pill jars knocked over and a box of condoms spewing its contents out into the sink. At least this meant they had been careful, Arthur thought dryly as he straightened up the mess and rummaged for a bottle of aspirin. Hopefully his headache would be gone soon.

Arthur tried to hurry through his shower, awkwardly aware that this was where the stranger showered every day, that the soap on his body was the stranger's soap. The stranger stood here, naked and wet, every day. Arthur was distracted by that thought for a few minutes until his stomach clenched painfully. Aspirin without food had been a poor decision and he was beginning to feel nauseous. He might as well get the rest of this affair over with.

His stomach flipped again when he emerged from the bathroom. It smelled so good that Arthur couldn't stop himself from inhaling and sighing. The kitchen was small and open to the common area, so Arthur watched the stranger fiddling with the stove for a while. He really was quite attractive, even now that he was covered up in a sweatshirt and jeans. The stranger hummed tunelessly to himself, stopping when he turned and caught sight of Arthur. He motioned for Arthur to sit at a small square table pushed up against the wall and brought him a plate loaded with eggs and bacon. Arthur looked at the food, then looked up at the stranger and back down to the food again.

"Shit, you're not a vegetarian, are you?"

"What? No. No, I was just going to say that this looks great and you really didn't have to go to all this trouble." He took a conservative bite of his eggs and smiled.

"Oh, good. My ex was a vegetarian. Worst six months of my life. I mean, eat whatever you want to eat, but don't lecture me every time I get a craving for a Big Mac, y'know?" The stranger shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth and grinned while he noisily chewed. Arthur didn't know how he was supposed to react to hearing about the stranger's ex so he just nodded and kept eating.

There was a sharp whistling sound and the stranger jumped up to take a kettle off of the stove. "Hey, not to assume or anything, but I've got tea if you want it."

"That would be nice actually, thanks." Arthur couldn't believe how nice the stranger was being to him, especially since Arthur had been so adamant on leaving.

The stranger dumped some instant coffee in his own mug before bringing Arthur his tea and putting some sugar and milk on the table. "It's not really my tea. It's Matt's. But I figured, with the accent and all..." He shrugged and put three liberal spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee.

"Who is Matt?"

"Speak of the devil," the stranger said and used his fork to indicate behind Arthur. Arthur turned and saw a gangly, long-haired version of the stranger staring back at him from the doorway of the other room. "Ya hungry, dude?"

Matt looked like a frightened deer, eyes flitting from Arthur, to the leftover food on the counter and back again. Finally, he winced and scurried into the kitchen to grab a plate.

"I'll eat in my room," he said as he all but ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.

"That's Matt. My brother."

"You live with your brother? I— oh god!" Arthur put his head in his hands.

"What's wrong?"

"Was he here last night? Did he, um, hear us? No wonder he couldn't even look at me!"

"Oh, yeah he was here." The stranger shot Arthur a self-satisfied smirk. "He definitely heard everything. Serves him right though. I walked in on him tit-fucking his girlfriend on the couch once. Swear to god I needed therapy. This is payback."

"Charming. Just charming."

"Hey, Arthur, relax, he'll get over it."

"And it wasn't even my fault! You were the one being loud, if I recall correctly!" Arthur pointed his fork at the stranger's face.

"My fault? Wow, yeah because I was totally the one trying to stick my hands down your pants and begging you to fuck me. Totally my fault."

"You did?"

"No, asshole, that was you! Glad it was a memorable experience though, thanks." The stranger shovelled some eggs into his mouth and chewed moodily.

"I'm sorry. I really am." Arthur put his fork down gently and started to get up. He should just leave now before he made things worse.

"Oh, sit the fuck down, it's fine. My name is Alfred, by the way, since I know you forgot that, too."

"Alfred! I do remember that! I mean, I didn't, but now that you mention it..."

"Uh huh."

"No, truly, I do." Arthur sat back down and played with his paper napkin. "And I do remember parts of last night. Not a lot of it, but some. When we were, um... that was certainly memorable."

"Oh, yeah?" Alfred licked a speck of egg of his bottom lip. Arthur knew he was teasing him again.

"Yes. Definitely. You're very good. It was very good."

Alfred laughed at him. "You are so cute. Calling it 'it'. We fucked, Arthur, it's fine."

"I know." Arthur folded and unfolded his napkin a few more times before he balled it up. "It's just that— you should know, I mean— I'm not _like_  that. I don't do that often. Getting drunk, letting strangers take me home. That's not me."

"Okay? So what? Even if that was you, I'd still like you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really." Alfred shook his head and looked away. Arthur took a long sip of his tea. "Anyway, we should get going. Don't want you to be late."

"Right." Arthur smiled self-consciously as Alfred whisked away his plate. "Oh! My keys! I couldn't find them, I—"

"They're right here." Alfred grabbed them off of the counter and tossed them to Arthur. "You stuck these down my pants, too."

"It seems there's quite a bit I need to be filled in on."

"Nah, nothing exciting."

Arthur shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. "Well, thank you for everything. Breakfast, and all that."

"No problem. Thank you for not vomiting on me at any point."

They both laughed, but didn't move toward the door. Arthur cleared his throat and steeled his nerves. Before he could convince himself not to, he stepped forward and kissed Alfred neatly on the lips. He pulled away quickly, but Alfred followed, bumping their noses together.

"Ah. Sorry." Alfred straightened up and scratched the back of his neck nervously.

"No. Um. I just didn't want it to seem like I don't like you. I do. I really do, I'm just fuzzy on things and I feel so terrible about how things turned out. I'd like to not be fuzzy."

"Like, go out?"

"Preferably without alcohol being involved." Arthur crossed his arms over his middle and rocked back on his heels. "If you'd like to, anyway."

"Are you kidding me? I've been trying to figure out how to ask you out all morning, but then I figured that was out the window once I called you an asshole."

"I've been called worse."

Alfred beamed. "Well, you'd better write this shit down on a calendar or something."

"What? Why?"

"We can't have you forgetting, now can we?"


	12. Feeding Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crisscrosscutout on Tumblr asked for something involving animals, so I went for the disappointingly obvious. 
> 
> Arthur crosses paths with Alfred over the feeding of a stray cat.

Arthur didn't like to think of himself as a sentimental man, but there was no denying he had a soft spot for animals. It didn't go much beyond a yearly donation to the local animal shelter and buying gag Christmas presents for his friends' pets in addition to spoiling his own cat. Still, Francis would tease him that it was his "mothering instinct" being repressed and that he was bound to end up like one of those "crazy cat ladies", but Arthur thought that was rubbish. He had no interest in children and saw nothing wrong with the companionship his dear Ginger provided.

Ginger was a handful, anyway. She demanded complete devotion and a rigid routine of feeding and snuggling or all Hell would break loose. Arthur knew better than to cross her after an incident involving new kibble that resulted in a destroyed sweater and a hairball filled shoe. So he was playing a very dangerous game by sneaking out to the alley next to his apartment building with a Tupperware container of Ginger's cat food and a little plastic bag of cat nip.

"Winston? I brought you dinner! Winston?" Arthur shook the container and made a couple of kissing noises until the grey and white stray slunk out from behind a dumpster. It broke Arthur's heart to see the poor thing hanging about a dirty alleyway but he couldn't take him in no matter how much he wanted to. Ginger would never allow it and he couldn't afford vet bills for another pet. It wasn't as if Winston looked unhealthy. He probably belonged to someone very nice, but they didn't allow him indoors. Arthur was just doing the cat a kindness by feeding him in the evenings. He didn't mean anything by it, nor by calling the stray Winston. It was simply easier to give the cat a name. He was being a good, charitable animal lover, that was all.

Winston meowed loudly and rubbed himself on Arthur's legs, bushy tail twitching in excitement. "Yes, yes, it's nice to see you, too." Arthur bent over to scratch behind the cat's ears. Winston stretched up into the pets, then flopped over dramatically, wriggling on his back as an invitation for Arthur to rub his belly. "You're not a dog, you silly thing," Arthur laughed as he stroked the soft tangle of fur. Winston was by no stretch of the imagination a small cat, and his long fur made him look something like an oddly coloured miniature lion. Perhaps Arthur would give him a proper brushing soon and see just how fluffy he could get.

Arthur watched with a smile as Winston devoured the cat food. The first few nights he had fed the cat, Arthur had thought he was starving and kept refilling the container only to have each serving disappear in minutes. It turned out Winston was a bottomless pit and kept eating as long as there was food in front of him. He seemed to be at a good weight, though, so Arthur figured his owners weren't leaving him completely to his own devices.

The container scraped across the pavement as Winston tried to lick every last bit of flavour from the corners. "I think you're quite done, sir. But, here. I've brought you a treat." Arthur fished the container away from the cat and sprinkled a few pinches of the catnip on the ground. Winston's reaction was instantaneous and he began rolling himself around until he was covered in leaves, purring and drooling like a fool. "You're lucky Ginger doesn't like this stuff. I tried to give it to her, but she looked at me as if I were a moron. She won't deign to touch the stuff. You, on the other hand, may be forming a dangerous habit, my friend." Winston was lost to the world and had taken to licking what remained of the catnip off the ground. Arthur laughed again and gave him a few more solid pats. "Don't have too much fun, now! I'll see you tomorrow."

He'd have to be sure to change his clothes as soon as he got into his apartment, or risk incurring the wrath of Ginger, but even if he was caught, it would be worth it. Arthur's soft spot wouldn't allow anything else.

* * *

 

"Winston! I've brought your dinner early. I'm not going to be- oh! Hello." Arthur recognized the young man sitting against the alley wall. He lived in the building, and they'd passed each other going up and down the stairs a few times, but that didn't explain why he was holding Winston in his lap or why he had a can of wet cat food. "What are you doing with Winston?"

"What? What do you mean? I'm just— oh shit, this isn't _your_ cat is it?"

"No… he's not yours?"

"Snowball? Nah. I thought she was a stray, so I've been feeding her in the afternoons."

That made something angry and possessive flare up in Arthur's chest and he crossed him arms. "Well, I've been feeding _him_  at night. You might as well stop. It's no wonder he's been getting fat lately."

"Hey! Snowball is not fat! She's just fluffy."

"Winston is getting fat because you're feeding him that canned garbage."

"How do you know she's not getting fat from your food, huh?" The man gently nudged Winston off his lap and stood, holding the can of cat food out to Arthur. "I bet this has less calories than your food."

"Not bloody likely! Besides, I'm already feeding him, so there's no need for you to do it, too."

The man scrunched his face up childishly and looked down at the cat, now sitting calmly between them and looking back and forth. "Well, I feed her earlier, so why don't you stop?"

"I was feeding him first!"

The man laughed. "What?! How could you possibly know that?"

Arthur couldn't come up with a good answer, so he rolled his eyes. "And anyway, you can't even tell that he's not a girl cat, so what do you know?"

"Snowball is not a boy!"

"Yes he is! He's got the, er, genitalia, or haven't you noticed?"

"Well, excuse me for not being an expert on cat crotches!"

They stared each other down for a few moments until they both burst into laughter.

"Are we really fighting over a cat?" The man took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, still giggling.

"I think we are." Arthur fanned his face, which he was sure was beet red from such a roller coaster of irritation and amusement. "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit of an animal lover and—"

"Oh yeah, me too, I totally get it. It's cool."

"I'm Arthur, by the way. You live in the building, yeah?"

"Yeah, I recognize you! I'm Alfred." He shook Arthur's hand cheerfully, then looked back down at the cat. "So what are we going to do about Winston Snowball, here?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe he had a family, but if you've been feeding him this whole time, then perhaps not. It seems silly to feed him twice, though."

"Yeah." Alfred scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "Let him decide, I guess?"

"What?"

"Like, see which food he goes for."

"I suppose that's only fair." Arthur waited for Alfred to open his can of cat food, and they walked a few paces away from the cat. They set their food down at the same time, and watched as the cat approached slowly, sniffing each offering in turn. After an intense moment of deliberation, he decided on the wet food, and began gobbling it down noisily.

"That settles that, then," Arthur said, a little disappointed. Alfred seemed like a nice enough person, but he'd miss his evenings with Winston.

"Sorry, man." Alfred clapped Arthur on the back sympathetically. Arthur flinched, surprised by the intimate gesture, but composed himself quickly. "Maybe if he doesn't belong to anyone, though, I should just take him in. Or you can, I mean. We can flip a coin or something."

"No, I already have a cat. She'd be livid if I tried to bring him in."

"You have a cat? What's her name?"

"Ginger. She's a Scottish Fold."

"The ones with they funny ears? That's cute! Hmmm. Maybe I should put up flyers or something. Just to be sure this isn't someone's cat."

"Yeah." Arthur retrieved his untouched container of cat food and snapped the lid back on. Winston didn't even look up at him, but Alfred was watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

"Do you… do you maybe want to help me? Put up flyers, I mean. And ask people and stuff? And in the mean time we can just trade off feeding him. Or like, feed him together, just split the difference." Alfred looked at Arthur hopefully, then down at his feet. "Or would that be weird?"

Arthur found Alfred's bashfulness endearing and softened in spite of himself. "No, that wouldn't be weird. I'd love to help. And visit Winston until we know for sure, of course."

"Great!" Alfred seemed genuinely excited about the arrangement, and Arthur returned his smile. "So, why Winston?"

"What do you mean?"

"The name."

"Oh. Oh, I don't know. It sounded dignified, is all. Churchill, England, all that." Alfred laughed, and Arthur realized how absurd giving such a distinguished name to stray cat was and laughed as well. "Why Snowball?"

"Snowball the Second, actually. I had a cat growing up, or my mom did. She was all white, so we called her Snowball. She got hit by a car when I was in the fourth grade. I so upset that I couldn't go to school for two days and I just stayed home and cried. I never wanted any pets after that until I met this little guy and—" Alfred shrugged and grinned down at the cat. "Sorry, you probably didn't want to know all that."

"No, it's fine. I'm sorry about the first Snowball."

"It happens."

They waited silently while the cat finished scarfing down his food. It wasn't uncomfortable, Arthur found, and he was becoming a bit grateful for Alfred's interest in Winston. Maybe he was just turning into a bleeding heart over the Snowball story, but it was touching that Alfred wanted to care for the stray in a more permanent fashion.

"So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Alfred picked up the empty food can and chucked it into the dumpster, while Arthur squatted to rub Winston's ears.

"Yes. I can make up some flyers or something and I…we can find some places to put them, if you'd like."

Alfred smiled brightly and bounced on the balls of his feet. "Yeah! And I'll find somewhere online to put a lost ad. And call some shelters, too, just in case anyone's reported him missing."

"Then, I suppose that's that."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Arthur stood up, but didn't make any motion to go back into the building. Neither did Alfred.

"Uh."

"Pardon?"

Alfred cleared his throat and shook his head, then bent over to pet Winston. "Nothin'. I mean, not nothin'. It's just…kind of premature. Never mind. It's stupid. Forget I said anything."

"What are you even talking about?"

"You're probably not even… aww, man. Okay. Well, if you aren't, like, busy or anything," Alfred straightened and gave Arthur a sheepish look, "I was kinda hoping I could feed you, too."

" _What?_ "

"I— oh, shit!" Alfred pushed his glasses on top of his head and rubbed his face with both hands. "That sounded like a much better pick-up line in my head. I'm sorry, that was creepy, forget it."

"Pick-up… oh. _Oh._ " Arthur was taken aback, but there was a flattered, giggly knot threatening to explode in his stomach. The rest of him was completely frantic to articulate an answer, but words seemed suddenly elusive, and he made a pained noise. "No. I mean, not _no_ , but no, I can't. I have an engagement this evening." Arthur watched as Alfred's cherry red face fell, and he nodded as if resigned to rejection. "But, er, tomorrow. If you wanted to, I mean, you could feed me tomorrow." Arthur winced at how stupid it sounded, and so did Alfred, obviously still embarrassed.

But then he smiled, scratching the side of his neck shyly. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Just none of that canned crap you're feeding Winston," Arthur teased.

Alfred laughed boisterously at that, seeming less nervous. "Of course not! Well, I should go. Um. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Alfred bent down to pet the cat on final time, then went to the door, looking over his shoulder at Arthur the whole time. "Bye."

"Goodbye." Arthur waved, and instantly felt like an idiot for doing so. Alfred just smiled and waved back.

As soon as he was gone, Arthur picked Winston up and gave him a kiss on his whiskered cheek. "You're going to get a lifetime supply of catnip for this, Winston." Winston just purred and bumped his head affectionately beneath Arthur's chin. Maybe Arthur was going to have to admit he was a sentimental man after all. His soft spot seemed to be growing.


	13. 2Spooky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silly rom-com-esque, vaguely Halloween related shenanigans with a slightly derisive tumblr-inspired title. Happy Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next two all happen to be holiday related and none of those holidays are happening right now. So I'm going to load them all together and you can have HallowValentinesMas in April.

"Boo!"

"Ah!" Arthur jumped and whirled around, disoriented as the eye-holes in the sheet over his body shifted. Tugging them back into place, he opened his mouth to scold whoever had snuck up on him. Indignation quickly turned into amusement, however, when he saw who was behind him. "Oh, wonderful. And here I thought I'd be wearing an original."

"Now one of us is going to have to change", the stranger said solemnly before laughing. "Sorry, I just thought I'd be the only one phoning it in so bad." He flapped his arms a little so that the body of his make-shift ghost costume fluttered.

"I wasn't going to come."

"Yeah, me neither, but I kinda got dragged along. Otherwise I woulda dressed up as something way cooler."

"I'm Arthur, by the way." He almost held out his hand for a handshake, but realized there wouldn't be any point when both of their arms were under their sheets. "How do you know the charming host?" Gilbert had been running around the house dressed up as an Angry Bird and using it as an excuse to affectionately tackle people periodically. He knew how to throw a good party, but Arthur had grown sick of socializing and loud music and he'd retreated to the garage for a breather.

"Yeah, Beilschmidt's a riot, ain't he? I'm the brother of the on and off again boyfriend." The stranger rolled his eyes.

"Ah. That makes you Alfred." Arthur smiled to himself, glad the sheet was covering his face.

"Whoa, hey, what!? How do you know who I am?"

"I know Matthew. He talks about you sometimes. So does Gil. With fewer expletives involved, interestingly enough."

Alfred chuckled and swished his sheet around again. "Guess I have a reputation, then?"

"A bit." Arthur didn't know what else to say. He had never enjoyed small talk, and had certainly never been good at it, but talking with Alfred seemed better than rejoining the party crowd. He was vastly more enjoyable to talk to than half the people at the party anyway. Arthur pointed to a large, pinkish splotch on Alfred's sheet. "The faded blood is a nice touch."

"What? Oh, yeah that's not... okay, so I kinda forgot I don't have arms in this thing and I tried to get some punch and ended up spilling it all over myself." Arthur couldn't help laughing a little, then made a sympathetic noise. "Lame, I know."

"No, it's..." Arthur shrugged to stop himself from saying "cute".

It frustrating to be talking to someone hidden beneath a sheet, especially now that Arthur had a feeling that Alfred was looking at him funny. Alfred eyes narrowed, then seemed to light up with a smile, but there was no way Arthur could know for sure.

"Anyway... you never said how you knew Gilbert."

"Oh. I just know him. One of those people that I can't remember meeting or actively deciding to befriend, you know?"

"God, yeah. Like, you don't remember why you like him, and you kind of don't? But you still end up at all his shitty parties."

"Exactly."

They both laughed, and Alfred started swinging his arms again. "So, what exactly has Matt been saying about me?"

Arthur shrugged. "This and that. Nothing terrible."

"C'mon dude, I need more details than that."

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"Just that you're studying engineering, you play basketball, you're incredibly charming and handsome. Annoying, I think, was another word he used." Arthur crossed his arms beneath his sheet and rocked back and forth onto his heels, smiling as he heard Alfred splutter.

"He called me annoying? Wait. He said I was charming and handsome?"

"Yes and yes. It was a rather contradictory sales pitch."

"Sales pitch?"

"He was considering setting us up." Arthur tried to sound nonchalant about it, and shrugged again for good measure.

"What!? He never told me that! He's never even mentioned you!"

Arthur winced. "How flattering."

Alfred didn't seem to know how to respond. Arthur could see the outline of him scratching his head beneath his sheet.

"I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's cool, just... did you say no?" Alfred tone was bordering on hurt, and Arthur winced again.

"No, actually, I didn't. But he didn't think you'd go for it."

Alfred sighed in obvious relief, the sheet puffing out over his face for a moment. "Okay. Yeah. I can see that. I wasn't really... I was kind of all over the place a few months ago. I mean, I probably would have said yes, but he never said anything, like I said, so... yeah."

"Right."

They were silent for a an uncomfortable few moments, Alfred swinging his arms again nervously, and Arthur rocking back and forth. Arthur felt silly for saying anything about the situation, but he actually had been looking forward to meeting Alfred eventually. Now he'd gone and cocked it up trying to be amusing. Maybe in any other situation Alfred might have been interested in him, but Arthur had ruined everything with his big mouth. He finally worked up the nerve to speak again.

"I've made things awkward, I'm afraid. Forget I said anything. Happy Halloween." Arthur ducked his head down and made to go around Alfred and back into the house, but he felt a hand grab for his shoulder.

"Hey, no, wait!" Alfred missed, and grabbed a handful of Arthur's sheet, pulling it off of him. Arthur whirled around to catch it and tried to pull it away from Alfred, but couldn't. They stared at each other for an endless moment, Arthur knowing his face was stuck in a stricken expression, but unable to change it. Alfred stepped closer, pulling Arthur's sheet. "Wow, I'm going to kill Matt for holding out on me."

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur felt his face get red, and his voice cracked.

"You're really cute. I mean, I'm not wearing my glasses, so I could be totally wrong and maybe you're fuggers or something, but for a dead British guy, you're pretty hot." He laughed at his own joke, then pulled on Arthur's sheet again, forcing Arthur to take a step closer. Arthur let himself be pulled in until they were barely two feet apart, then regained a hold of his senses and pulled back.

"Are you seriously trying to _flirt_  with me right now?"

"Trick or treat?"

"That's not an answer."

"Yeah, okay, I'm trying to flirt with you."

"Because you think I'm cute." Arthur wasn't stating that as a fact so much as trying to piece together what was going on.

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

Arthur was too flustered to say yes, and he definitely didn't want to say no. Instead he opened his mouth and let out a stunted, confused noise. Alfred tugged him closer by the sheet again, and this time Arthur didn't fight back. He did, however, raise one of his hands and reach for Alfred's sheet, intent on pulling it off of his face.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"What? Why not?"

"I'm not wearing anything underneath this."

It took Arthur a moment to register what he'd said, and then he choked on his own spit and gawked down at Alfred's legs, which were in fact bare. "You're not... you have to be joking."

Alfred chuckled. "You're kind of hoping I'm not though, right?"

Arthur flushed again, and didn't know how to respond other than to frown and yank the sheet off Alfred's head. It fell across his face and down to his chest, which was covered by a t-shirt, thankfully. Arthur studied his face, horrified when his heart fluttered the tiniest bit. Alfred was handsome, especially since he was grinning and his hair was messy from the sheet. He wasn't sure what to do, wanting to get out of the room and stay, push Alfred away and kiss him all at once. And that was absurd. He shouldn't be thinking about kissing people he had hardly met, no matter how handsome they were or how long he'd waited to meet them. Arthur was spared having to respond again, though, as Alfred's grin widened and he leaned forward. For a brief moment, Arthur thought he was going to end up kissing someone he'd just met, but Alfred stopped short.

"Boo."

And Arthur jumped again, but this time his smile was instant.


	14. A Christmas Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas related pet things.

"Do you ever miss having one?" America nudged England as they walked along the park path.

"Huh? One of what?"

Gesturing to the fenced in dog park they were approaching, America smiled. "Dogs. It's been a long time since you've had one."

England slowed his pace a little as they walked by the fence, head turning to watch the few pets and owners that had decided to brave the cold for a play-date. "You haven't had one for awhile, either."

"Not since, what? '90, '91? Man, Buddy was a good dog.

"Big dog."

"Big ass dog. And you! You had that yappy little rat back in the 70s. I fucking hated that dog. Tried to bite my hand off."

"Chester was a gentle and well-mannered dog and you never came around much anyway back then, so what's it to you?"

America laughed to himself as he thought of the angry little Scottish terrier, then shrugged. "But I don't think I'll ever want another one. It's too hard. We... well, y'know. They die, we don't. 15 years is kind of nothin', y'know?"

Turning to look at England, America was surprised at the fond look he was being given. "What?"

England shook his head and smiled at the ground before catching up to put his arm through America's. "It's sweet you're so tender-hearted. And I do miss it, yes. The companionship, anyway. But I wouldn't want to have another, either. It's too difficult to leave them every few months. They get so wounded over it."

"I get wounded every time you leave, but you don't seem to care about that!" America quipped with a fake pout, and England promptly shoved him. "I guess it's for the best, though. I mean, I still get to play with Bo, so it's not like I never have a dog around, but that's different. I don't know. Maybe I'll just get a goldfish."

"And cry when you have to flush the poor thing, I'm sure."

"Hey!"

"Hush, I'm only teasing. I'll admit it does get lonely, though. I wouldn't mind having a pet. I've considered getting a cat."

"Yeah?"

England cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets, bringing his shoulders up against the chill. "Well, cats don't mind being left to their own devices. They don't pine over their owners like dogs do. Not as high maintenance. They're likely to live longer, as well. It's only prolonging the heartache, I know, but still. It's company."

"You've been thinking about this for a while."

"Perhaps."

"So why not get a cat? Or a kitten?"

Sighing, England shrugged. "I could never pick one out. I'd want to take them all, honestly. Spoil them rotten."

America imagined England covered in kittens, knitting little sweaters and toys for them, growing catnip in his garden, and he laughed. "And you call me tender-hearted! That's adorable!"

"Don't laugh! I just feel bad for all the poor things in the shelters, that's all."

"Awww, my little cat lady in the making!" America wrapped his arm around England's waist and pressed a quick kiss to his temple before he could protest.

England scoffed and quickly changed the subject to the remaining preparations for Christmas, but America was only half-listening as he formulated his plan.

* * *

 

The weeks passed, and all talk of pets was forgotten, which was exactly what America had hoped for. It had been a challenge to find an excuse to get out of England's house without him, but a few smooth lies about President this and embassy that had bought him a few hours. He could hardly wait for Christmas to come— more than usual, anyway.

Christmas morning proceeded in normal fashion as they drank cocoa in front of England's Christmas tree and exchanged gifts— some video games and DVDs he had been excited for for America, along with a sweater England had knit him, and a pair of antique cuff links and a new fancy set of pyjamas with a bath robe for England. After the customary "thank you" kisses and the clearing of the wrapping paper, America had England sit back down on the sofa, and went to retrieve the rest of his gifts.

"What did you do? Honestly, this is too much," England said as he took the first box that was handed to him.

"Don't worry about it. Just open it up!"

America had to stop himself from bouncing up and down as England tore off the paper to reveal a box with a set of pet food bowls in it. He thought England would understand right away, but England only looked at him with a bewildered expression. "What's this?"

"Open this one and maybe it'll make sense." America handed him a bag with a mountain of tissue paper spilling out of it, feeling giddy as England plucked it all out and the pulled out a bag of kitten food.

"What? I don't... Oh, god, you didn't! Did you really?"

"I had to! Here." America gingerly handed him the last box, which he had dutifully poked holes in after picking up it's occupant early that morning.

England opened his mouth to say something else, but shook his head instead and took the box. He cautiously placed it on his lap and removed the lid. America didn't know what kind of reaction he'd been expecting, but it certainly had not been England's face crumpling into a weird, tearful expression.

The kitten in the box, roused by the sudden increase in light, stood on his wobbly legs and mewed. His body was white, with grey points and a comical grey ruff that made him look like a mini bleached lion. America had even loosely tied a red bow around his little neck right before he'd brought the box out, and he was very pleased with the result.

"Do you like him?"

England's face was still contorting as he lifted the kitten out of the box and cradled it to his chest. "Oh my goodness, he's perfect! What a precious thing! I can't even... oh!" The kitten squeaked and squirmed happily as England stroked him and nuzzled him against his cheek. "He's absolutely darling."

"You're not going to cry, are you?"

"He's just so sweet!"

"Awwww, honey." America sat next to England on the sofa and put his arm around his shoulders. England nestled closer, but couldn't take his eyes off the kitten, who was nipping at his fingers and batting at them with his tiny paws. "I hoped you'd like him. I thought about getting you a grown-up cat, but then this little guy started meowing at me and he was so playful, I couldn't resist!"

"He's perfect," England cooed. "Let's get this silly bow off your neck, darling." He slipped the ribbon over the kitten's head, and the kitten took that as a cue to try to chew on it. England wiggled it for him a few times before tossing it aside and bringing the kitten up to eye level. "Such pretty colouring, too. He's a bit fat, dear thing." With a laugh, kissed the kitten's head and cuddled him against the crook of his neck.

"Hey! Where's my kiss?" America whined, as he tickled the kitten under his chin. "This little guy is stealing all my kisses!"

"Big baby," England chided, but turned to kiss America. It was slow and sweet, with just a tiny promise of escalation, and America smiled and silently thanked the ability of cute pets to get a guy laid. But England pulled away, and said in a mock sweet voice, "You're a bit fat, too."

"Jerk!" America laughed.

England went back to fussing over the kitten. "Thank you, he's just wonderful. I love him. I love you, too."

"Good. You can't replace me just because he's cuter."

"I'll try, but no promises. Now, come along, darling. You must be hungry." England stood up, still cradling the kitten.

"Yeah, I could eat!"

England gave America a withering look. "I was talking to the cat. You're capable of feeding yourself."

"I really didn't think this through."


	15. Candy Gram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High School AU. Valentine's Day treats from secret admirers lead to an interesting conversation between Alice and Emily.

"So how much do these thingies cost?"

Alice looked up from her biology textbook for the first time that entire lunch period. No one had come by the Candy Gram booth since she had started working her shift. It wasn't surprising, but it irritated her that Francis and Antonio had sold over 200 between them the day before. "You can't sell sweets while looking sour, chéri," Francis had cooed at her, and she'd promptly told him to walk into traffic, but it didn't change the fact that no one wanted to come near her, even if Valentine's Day was tomorrow.

What was surprising was that Emily Jones was standing over her, one hand shoved in the pocket of her low-rise, almost-too-tight jeans, and other hovering over the bundles of chocolate kisses wrapped in cellophane with wire stems made to look like roses. Alice gawked for a moment, then cleared her throat and pointed to the card-stock sign on the table.

"Can't you read?"

"Oh! Right!"

Emily seemed unfazed by Alice's less than friendly tone. Not that Alice wanted to sound unfriendly, she just didn't want to seem too friendly. It was complicated. Emily made things complicated. Not by saying anything or doing anything, but just by existing. Stupid Emily and her pretty smile and pretty eyes and pretty hair and her t-shirts that were almost too low-cut and her perfume that was almost too sweet. Stupid Emily who was star of the women's basketball team even though she was only a sophomore, and was the pet student of literally every teacher in the science department. Alice would have hated her, except for the fact that she was in love with her.

"Are you going to buy some, or are you just window-shopping?" Alice pushed her glasses up her nose and crossed her legs, looking back down at her textbook and hoping she appeared casual and uncaring.

"Well, I want a dozen, but I don't know what colour to get." Emily stuck both of her hands in her pockets and leaned back to consider her options, the action causing the tiniest strip of slightly tanned skin to show beneath her belly button. Alice stared openly, imagining how soft and warm it would feel, then shook her head. She took off her glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief for an unnecessary amount of time, grateful that her blurry vision offered a reprieve.

"I suppose it depends on your intentions," Alice said delicately.

"Huh?" Emily cocked her head to the side. It made her look ridiculously puppy-like, and Alice had to go about rearranging the already neat samples to avoid smiling like a fool.

"Who you're giving them to and why. The colours can signify your, er, feelings. Yellow is for friendship and happiness, pink is for admiration, like when you fancy someone but you don't want to seem forward. I'm sure you can guess what red means."

"True love, be mine, all that jazz?"

"Essentially."

"Huh. Didn't know that. You're like a walkin' encyclopedia, aren't ya?"

Alice winced and hunched her shoulders. "Don't make fun of me."

"Oh, no! I'm not, I swear!" Emily scratched the back of her head and twisted her mouth into a lop-sided pout. "That's all cool stuff, but I still don't know what to do."

A twinge of jealousy shot through Alice, and she wished the encounter was over, hurriedly saying, "I'm sure any boy would appreciate getting candy from you, so it doesn't really matter what-"

"No, no, you don't understand. I want to send them to my baby brother!"

"What?"

"Mattie. He's not going to get any, I just know it, so I thought I'd send him some anonymously. But I don't want to get his hopes up thinking he has some secret admirer, so I don't know what to do. And it would be lame to get candy flowers from your big sister and I don't want to embarrass him."

"Oh. Oh! That is a different sort of thing, isn't it?" Alice half-giggled nervously. "I guess red is out, then?"

"Yeah, probably. That'd be weird."

"As long as your write something friendly on the card, I don't think he'll take it the wrong way."

"Yeah. Yeah! I just don't want him to get nothin', ya know?" Emily nodded to herself twice, then bent over the table to scrawl a message into one of the small white cards stacked next to the bouquets. Alice noticed that she mouthed the words as she wrote them, and thought that was oddly charming, smiling with her lips pressed together.

"I think it's sweet of you to think of this. My siblings would die before doing anything nice for me," Alice said self-consciously as she took the card from Emily and taped it to an order form.

Emily shrugged and laughed. "It's nothing."

"Just fill this out, please." Alice handed her the form and Emily knelt in front of the table this time, taking up the pen again.

"I think I'm going to do the pink ones."

"Lovely."

"Oh crap! I don't know his sixth period class!"

Alice sighed and reached under the table for the massive binder of student schedules and started turning the pages in as large of chunks as she could manage. "It's fine, I'll find it."

"Cool! Thanks. I didn't know something like that existed." Emily stood up and dusted off her knees, then pushed aside a few of the bouquets so she could sit on the table.

Alice stopped turning pages to stare for a moment. Emily was leaning forward just enough that her t-shirt was pulling up, making visible the subtle dimples of her lower back. The swell of her hip was just enough to sit over the waist band of her jeans, and as she leaned forward even farther, Alice became convinced that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Blushing ferociously, Alice flipped through the pages so quickly that she had to go back through the Js to be sure she hadn't missed Matthew's name.

"Hmmm. I'm not seeing him in here."

Emily leaned backwards and look down to the binder. "Oh, uh, he's not under Jones. It's Williams." Alice couldn't help shooting her a questioning look, and Emily shrugged with practised nonchalance. "It's a whole… thing. It's whatever."

"Ah." Alice ducked her head and went back to searching, finding his schedule and writing down the needed information in silence. "You're all set. That will be three dollars, please."

Emily hopped off the table and pulled out the money from her back pocket. "So you keep records of all the orders, right?"

"Yes."

"Did you peek to see if you were getting any?" Alice looked up at her and Emily wiggled her eyebrows.

"Of course not! I mean, yes, but of course I'm not getting any! I mean, I don't want… No." Alice shook her head and shoved the money into the cash box before filing Emily's order form.

"Hmmm. Well, what about me? Did you see if I'm getting any?"

Alice hadn't even thought to look, but now she knew what she would be doing the moment Emily left. "Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you. You'll have to find out tomorrow in Biology. Anyway, I'm sure you'll be getting dozens from all of your gentleman admirers." A hit of bitterness crept into Alice's voice in spite of herself.

"Gentleman admirers. Geez, you're funny." Emily snorted, then fished a stick of gum out of her pocket and popped it into her mouth.

"How so?"

Emily chewed pensively for a moment. "Let's just say they'd be barkin' up the wrong tree."

"Yeah?" Alice questioned quietly once her brain had started functioning again.

"Yeah." Emily put her hands on the table and leaned toward Alice. Out of instinct, Alice leaned back. She didn't know if Emily was just messing with her or actually attempting to flirt, and the latter option was so thrilling and terrifying that Alice grappled for something to shatter the moment.

"I ought to write you up for the chewing gum." Internally, Alice winced at how stupid she was for saying it, but outwardly met and held Emily's gaze.

Emily smirked and chewed a little slower before blowing a huge bubble, never breaking eye contact. The bubble deflated and Emily pulled it back into her mouth expertly, then straightened.

"Thanks for your help." She walked away before Alice could respond.

It took the rest of the lunch period, but Alice went through every single order form in the box and didn't find a single one sending chocolate flowers to Emily. Before her courage could desert her, she paid for and filled out a form ordering six dozen reds, leaving the sender line anonymous.

Emily sat on the other side of the lab from Alice during Biology, but Alice would still get a good view of her reaction when the flowers were delivered. She'd probably be thankful for the distance once Emily read the card, anyway.

_I hope **I'm** not barking up the wrong tree. _


	16. When it Rains, it Pours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU, fem!America. Emily gives Arthur a ride on a rainy day, complete with a confession Arthur never saw coming. Based on the prompt "pick up truck" from an anon on tumblr.

"Hey, sugar! Wanna ride?"

Arthur pulled the hood of his bulky jacket back from his eyes and peered out into the deluge of rain. The bus stop shelter did little to protect him from the wind slopping the rain haphazardly in every direction, and he wiped a hand over his wet face and squinted.

He blinked a few times just to be certain his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. But no matter how hard he blinked, he still saw Emily Jones in her ugly red pick-up truck pulled up next to the curb. Emily had always been nice to him, even in high school when she had been infinitely more popular than Arthur's crowd. Emily was just a nice girl. A nice, smart, funny, very pretty girl.

"C'mon you're gonna drown!"

"It's no trouble. The bus will be along any minute. Really."

Emily gave him a withering look. "Arthur, we're going the same way. Get your buns in the car."

He couldn't say no to that, and fumbled with the door handle, slick and cold. Plopping with a loud squish into the seat, Arthur put his nearly soaked backpack on the floor and tried to get the lap seatbelt over the bulk of his coat.

"Thank you. I mean, this is really unnecessary. I could have managed, but-"

"You look like the Michelin Man in that thing." Emily was eyeing his coat with a smile.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I…. don't know."

Emily laughed, but it didn't seem cruel. "You're adorable."

Arthur didn't know what to say to that, so he turned toward the window and coughed.

Emily laughed again and her silver star earrings made a gentle tinkling noise as she shook her head and checked her mirrors before pulling back onto the road. Arthur stared at her openly for a few moments. She wasn't at all dressed for the weather, wearing a thin-looking sweatshirt, a pair of cut-off shorts, flip flops and her hair pulled back from her face by a pair of lime green sunglasses. He jolted and stared into his lap when she turned back abruptly, reaching for something he couldn't see on the seat between them.

"Hungry?"

"What?"

Emily thrust a large plastic bag filled with Lucky Charms at his face, then put it back on the seat, taking a handful and funneling it slowly into her mouth.

"Help yourself."

"Oh. Thank you." Arthur took a handful of cereal because he didn't know what else to do and spent a few moments sorting them by shape in the palm of his hand before eating them.

They remained quiet for the entire ride. If it made Emily uncomfortable, she didn't show it. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel at red lights, hummed to herself, adjusted the heat, and looked over at Arthur and smiled a few times. He smiled back, stupidly. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it in his fingertips, but it was probably just from being stuck in the puffy coat. He was overheating. That was all.

Emily pulled into one of the back parking lots of the college campus, growling when someone tried to cut her off. "Jesus fuck, why do people forget how to drive when it's raining?"

Arthur laughed sympathetically. "Thank you for the ride. I probably would have been late if you hadn't happened by."

"No problem." Emily smiled at him again, then went back to scanning the lot for a free spot. She drove down two rows in silence before casually saying, "You know, I had, like, _the_  fattiest crush on you in high school."

Arthur choked on his own spit trying to respond, but managed to blurt out, "What?"

"Yeah. Like, senior year I was going to ask you to the Sadie Hawkins dance and everything, but I chickened out because I didn't think you liked me like that. But then you ended up coming here, too, and it's kind of nice to see you around and everything and yeah."

Arthur couldn't feel his fingertips anymore, but his stomach was twisted in a weird, happy-scared knot. He stared at Emily until she found a spot and started to pull in, but she was resolutely not looking back at him.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Emily shrugged and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, wiping away some invisible imperfection under her eye.

"And now?"

She turned to look at him, head cocked to the side. Then she pursed her lips in a strange, side-ways smile. "Ya got a pen?"

"What?"

"Pen. Do you have a pen?"

"Uh… yeah, just a second." Arthur fished a pen out of his backpack and handed it to her. She took it and grabbed a hold of his wrist before he could pull back, and shoved the sleeves of his coat and shirt up as far as they would go. Arthur watched with a kind of numb excitement as she wrote her phone number in huge, loopy writing up his forearm.

"If it's still raining tomorrow, call me. I'll give you a ride. Or just call me. In general. Or something. Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Emily chewed her lip, looking unsure for the first time since Arthur had gotten into the truck. "Okay, you'd better go before I feel like a dumbass."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Stop saying okay."

"Okay."

Emily snorted, and gave Arthur a long, calculating look. Arthur felt it was safer not to move, and was sure Emily was quickly deciding he was thick or defective or something. Then she pressed her lips together and a determined half-glare glinted briefly in her eyes.

"Aww, screw it."

Before Arthur could do anything, her hands were on either side of his hot, damp face, and her lips were on his. It only lasted a second, and it didn't feel all that great. Her mouth was kind of waxy feeling from what Arthur assumed was cheap lip balm and her hands were uncomfortably cold. Arthur still hadn't moved when she pulled away, her hands staying on his face, but her eyes flicking down to his mouth and then back up, as if she was gauging his reaction and considering kissing him again. Her face was red. Arthur's heart started beating loudly in his ears again.

Patting his cheeks awkwardly with both hands, Emily half winced, half smiled, then undid her seatbelt and opened her door.

"Uh. Yeah. Well, just make sure to lock the door before you leave." She pushed the pin down on her own door before slamming it and disappearing into the rain.

Arthur was twenty minutes late to his Philosophy class by the time he was able to pull himself together and get out of the truck, feeling hot, wet, and confused.


	17. Wasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets the confession he's always wanted, but not at all the way he wanted. 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Alcohol consumption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ton of fics have Arthur/England confessing his feelings while drunk, so this happened instead.

"Hello?" Fumbling to keep the phone to his ear, Arthur cleared his throat sleepily and rolled onto his back.

"Hey, roomie!" Arthur could hear the drunken drawl and slur in Alfred's voice just from those two words and he sat up and tried to get his brain functioning in case he needed to go pick him up.

"Alfred, are you—"

"What ya doin'?"

"I was sleeping."

"Uh oh, did I wake you up?" Alfred affected a high, childish voice before snorting grossly and laughing.

"A little bit, yes." Arthur smiled and flopped back onto his pillows. He had only been around a drunk Alfred once since they had been living together and it was quite amusing. Drunk Alfred liked to hug everyone and attempted to re-enact awful 90s boy band music videos by himself. He was probably a big hit at the fraternity party. There was no doubt they would initiate him. "Where are you? Aren't you missing your party?"

"Naaahhhhhh. Nothin' to miss. 'S just a party. Had to take a piss 'n it's quiet in here 'n I wanna talk to you."

"About what?" Arthur rolled onto his side and cupped his hand under is cheek, prepared for a lengthy, booze-fueled and incoherent tale. It was a little pathetic, but Arthur was pleased that Alfred was forgoing the party just to talk to him. Things had seemed a little strange between them for a few weeks, almost as if Alfred was avoiding him. Arthur just chalked it up to stress and busy schedules. They'd only been room-mates for a few months, anyway.

"There're a lot of girls here, man. I mean like a lot a lot. _A lot_." Alfred's voice got louder as he repeated himself and Arthur could hear the echo in the bathroom.

"All right?" Frowning, Arthur pulled his blanket up over his shoulder and fidgeted. "Is that a problem?" He didn't want to talk to Alfred about girls. He didn't care what "bro code" bullshit it was that Alfred followed. It made him uncomfortable. It made him jealous. But not of Alfred.

"No, no. I mean I don't care about chicks or whatever, I'm just—" Alfred groaned and there were a few banging and scraping noises. "D'ya think they let you in if you like dudes?"

Arthur panicked, misunderstanding for a moment that Alfred was using "you" in the general sense. He hadn't discussed his own preferences with Alfred. He wasn't planning to, silly puppy crush or otherwise, but there was always the slippery gut feeling that somehow Alfred could tell. "What?"

"Like, do you think gay dudes join frats?"

"I don't know... why? Did somebody hit on you?" Arthur had heard stories about hazing that went far too sexual, but it didn't sound like Alfred was upset.

"No! No. But like, if like a guy wants to pledge but he likes other guys 'n it's secret do you think he can?

"I don't know. Why are you asking me this?"

Alfred groaned again and there was another thunk. "'S not even like I like a bunch o' dudes or anything, I jus' like _you_."

Arthur felt like he had been punched in the stomach, and his heart started pounding in the world's worst mix of excitement and fear. He had no idea what to do or say, so he froze, feeling hot and cold down to the tips of his toes.

Seemingly unconcerned by the lack of response, Alfred kept babbling. "This sucks. 'Cuz like, sometimes, 'm not even trying to think like that but I'll be like in class or something and then I think about it, you, and it's like 'whoa, gay brain, stop that. 's not cool', but then it's not a bad thing. Like I don' care about gay stuff. 'S fine with me, y'know? Be gay. Gay away, my brothers 'n sisters. But like, I'm not gay? But I am? Y'know?"

Alfred paused again and sighed heavily. His breathing slowed and became more regular than the stilted rhythm he'd had while speaking and Arthur thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. He felt like he should say something, but had no idea what. He would have kept opening and closing his mouth like a dying fish forever if Alfred hadn't suddenly coughed and started talking again.

"This bath mat thingy is really comfy. Anyway, I wanna kiss you and stuff. A lot. A lot. All the time. 'N other stuff." Alfred moaned, but Arthur wasn't sure if it was meant to be suggestive or if he was starting to feel sick. "Hey, you still there?"

"What other stuff?" That had not been what Arthur had meant to say, but now that it was out, he wanted to hear the answer.

Arthur heard another moan and some rustling before Alfred sighed again. "Ev'rythiiiiiiiiiiiing. I don' know. Wanna fuck you." Alfred was sounding less alert and more drunk than before and Arthur wondered guiltily if he should be prodding him along. Did any of this even count when it was coming out under the influence of alcohol?

But he couldn't stop himself. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Fuckin' hot. Wanna fuck... staring at your legs sometimes and your ass and... pretty eyes...wanna fuck me." Alfred sounded sick and sleepy, but Arthur let him keep slurring. "Want you to fuck me more."

"Oh my god." Arthur wiggled onto his stomach and ran a hand over his face and then back through his hair. He was a horrible mixture of embarrassed and turned on, so he forced himself to be reasonable. "We shouldn't, I mean, I shouldn't be talking to you right now. You're smashed. You don't know what you're saying."

"Sayin' I wanna... like, go down on you. Fuck. _Fuck_. I don' feel good."

"Alfred! Are you—?"

Alfred made a choking noise and then there was an echo-y bang before the sound of him retching blared in Arthur's ear. He moved the phone away from him until he heard the toilet flush. Alfred coughed and whined a few times, then fumbled with his phone.

"Are you all right?"

" 'm really drunk."

"I know, Al, I know." Guilt lanced right through Arthur's chest.

"Maybe... should lay down on the floor again."

"No, don't do that. Sit up." Arthur sat up on his knees. "Do you need me to come get you?"

"I don't... no. I'm not—"

Before Alfred could finish his half-thought or Arthur could argue with him, there was a pounding noise and some muffled shouting. Alfred must have dropped his phone on the mat because all Arthur could hear was a gentle thud and the sound of a door opening before more voices began to echo in the bathroom. The phone crackled, then went silent.

Arthur called back frantically, and when no one answered he sent several text messages. About thirty minutes later he got a response that Alfred was fine and someone sober was going to take him home. Panic punched Arthur's stomach again as he thought about facing Alfred, but he waited dutifully by the door anyway. There was every chance that Alfred wouldn't recall their conversation. Arthur couldn't help feeling disappointed at the idea, but it might be for the best.

Alfred was dropped off, less sick, but still uncoordinated. Arthur made him take off his shoes and glasses and go straight to bed, making sure he was propped up on his side with a trash bin within reach. Silent through the entire affair save for a few grunts and mumbles, Alfred suddenly grabbed at Arthur's pyjama pant leg as he turned to leave his room.

"Do you need something?" Arthur tried to subtly pull himself away, but Alfred was rubbing the fabric between his thumb and first two fingers like a child trying to soothe himself.

"Did I... did I say anything stupid?" Alfred looked up at Arthur. "When I called you, I mean."

The longer Arthur looked Alfred in the eye, the more he felt sick himself. It wasn't fair. He was finally getting what he wanted, and it felt horrible. Liquor was still swimming in Alfred's eyes, making him look lost and confused. He looked afraid. Arthur felt afraid. He felt angry. He felt guilty. He felt like he could lean down and kiss Alfred right on his vomit fouled mouth.

Instead, he pried Alfred off his pyjama pants, perhaps letting his fingers linger a little too long on the back of his hand.

"No. You didn't say anything."


	18. Size Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A silly little spat over some footwear leads to an interesting discovery and a dent on America's pride. 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity and Innuendo

"We're going to be late," England called matter-of-factly up the stairs before returning to pacing in the foyer. Two loud thunks sounded from the bedroom roughly above his head, and England looked up, squinting as if his worry would penetrate through the ceiling and allow him to see whatever it was America was doing.

"Are you all right?"

America's voice was significantly muffled, but England could still hear the slight panic. "Uh, yeah, fine! What time was that reservation for again?"

"Now, roughly." England flicked his wrist to check his watch, then spent longer than necessary fixing the cuffs of his suit jacket. Irritation and impatience were getting the better of him, so he inhaled as deeply as he could before exhaling slowly, cheeks puffed out. There was little use in getting upset at America. Habitual tardiness was just as much a part of America's personality as all of the things England admired and loved in him. Take the bad with the good, or whatever that silly saying was, he thought. But as another series of bangs and thuds danced above England's head, he thought that maybe he would be justified in skinning the man alive just for being so annoying.

Temper finally winning out, England stomped halfway up the staircase, then braced himself on the banister, knuckles going white as he tightened his grip. "What the devil is going on up there?"

America didn't answer for a moment, but then he swore loudly and came tearing out of the bedroom and down the hall. "I only have one shoe," he panted, holding up a black dress shoe in dire need of a better polish.

Making a cognizant effort not to focus on how handsome America looked when he was all dressed up in a suit and tie, England frowned. "What do you mean you only have one shoe?"

"I only have one shoe! One. Just the one shoe. That's what that means. I only have one fucking fancy ass shoe!" America's voice cracked in exasperation and he held the one shoe aloft, shaking it violently.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! How do you only have one shoe?"

"Fuck if I know! I must not have packed the other one!" America ran a hand through his hair, but stopped when he realised he was messing it up. "Okay. Okay! I guess I can wear my red Chucks and that won't look too weird, right?"

"You must be joking." England crossed his arms over his stomach, and shot America a hard look.

"What!?"

"I swear on everything that is holy that I will break up with you if you ever again so much as consider wearing trainers with a suit. I swear I will."

"But it's trendy!"

"I don't care! I'm not dating Jay-Z Timberlake!"

America burst into laughter, which only increased England's frustration. "Oh my god, nice try sweetheart, but it's Justin Timberlake. Jay-Z is a totally different person."

"Is now really the time!?" England was struggling to keep his voice just below a shriek.

"No, right, sorry."

"Go see if you can fit any of my shoes. Just to get through dinner. If we aren't already too late."

"Right. Okay. Yeah."

America bolted back up the stairs and England went back to waiting in front of the door. Less than two minutes passed, but to England it felt like hours. Disjointed pattering told him America was running down the stairs, and he turned to see what he had found.

"Oh god, why have you only got one shoe on?" England whined, and stamped his foot half-heartedly in defeat.

One of England's shoes was on America's left foot, and the other was in his hand, which he was holding up to his own mateless shoe. There was a look of complete befuddlement on America's face as he held the two shoes together, sole to sole. He held the display out to England, as if it was supposed to make sense to him.

"What's the matter?"

"It's bigger."

"What?"

"Your shoe."

England shook his head, not understanding what little game America was trying to play. "All right?"

"It's bigger. Your shoe is bigger. Your feet are bigger." America shook the shoes in England's face, his expression getting more desperate.

It took a moment for England to catch on, and when he did he had to fight back laughter at America's wounded male ego. It was such a ridiculous thing to worry about, considering all the sex they had had during the course of their relationships and not-relationships. There was hardly any reason to feel insecure now, especially not because of such an innocuous and inaccurate measuring stick as a shoe. But England wasn't going to comfort him. It was too amusing.

"Well, my goodness. I suppose they are."

"How could I not notice this? How have I never noticed this? That can't be right, right? Like you're not... it's not..." America trailed off and scratched his head, which looked extra comical since he still had his hand inside the shoe.

"I wouldn't worry about it. There's not that much difference. Mine are just a bit longer." England couldn't help chuckling a little.

"That's not funny."

"It's not a big deal. So what if you have wee little feet? I think it's sweet."

"It's not funny!"

"That is, they aren't all that small. I just mean that they're... stumpy, compared to mine."

"Hey-"

"Yes! Stumpy little toes and all-"

"That's not-"

"-which just means that I have bigger-"

"Don't say it!"

"-socks!"

England allowed himself a smug smile while America's face got redder and he struggled for words. Finally he stamped his foot (the one wearing the shoe) and went to sit on the bottom stair to put on the other shoe.

"That's the oldest joke in the book."

"You set yourself up for it, dear."

America finished tying England's shoe unto his foot and stood, rocking back and forth and making a face as he felt all of the extra space at his toes. "I hate you so much."

Laughing, England grabbed his keys and patted his pockets for his wallet before opening the door and gesturing America through it. "Yes, well, hate me in the car, because I'm starving."


	19. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU, Nyotalia, Vaguely 50s  
> Warnings: Internalized homophobia, Masturbation mention, Menstruation mention
> 
> Annie's interest in boys bothers Rose, so they make a pact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this when I was doing a ton of research for a costuming class and was inspired by the 50s aesthetic. It doesn't necessarily read as being a period piece, so feel free to not take it that way.

Annie is playing at the vanity, brushing her finger tips over the carefully maintained display and picking up a hair brush or ribbon every now and then to inspect it. Rose doesn't know why she does that when she comes over, other than to have something to do. Sometimes it feels like she doesn't want to talk and look at Rose at the same time, and Rose isn't sure if she should be angry at that or not. At least she talks.

And it's better than when they go to Annie's house. Her mother doesn't let her lock the door, or even close it, and she doesn't like it when they play the radio. She thinks the music is "sinful". She thinks everything is sinful. She's probably right. Sometimes Rose thinks everything is sinful too, but it's a feeling inside, not an outward judgement.

Finally Annie has stalled enough and she spritzes two pumps of Rose's fancy perfume provocatively on her neck, tossing her wild, thick hair as she answers Rose's question.

"It don't mean nothin' when I kiss him, Rosie. It's just kissin'."

Rose smoothes down her skirt even though there's nothing wrong with it, then spreads out all the folds so that it fans open across her bed like wings. "If it don't mean noth— if it doesn't mean anything, I don't see why you have to do it so often."

"Awww, don't talk all prissy and grown-up, Rosie, I hate when you do that!"

"I don't think you should let him kiss you."

Annie rolls her eyes in the mirror and fidgets with her hair. "Francis is nice. He's handsome. And he's popular. You're supposed to go with popular boys so everyone will take you seriously."

"He's a _senior_."

"You're a junior." Annie meets Rose's gaze through the mirror and gives her a level look.

Rose can hear the unspoken other half of the sentence— "... _and I kiss you all the time_." She doesn't have anything to say to that, so she goes back to fiddling with her skirt. It's too tight at her waist. Everything feels too tight when she has to wear the corselette her mother bought her for her last birthday. She doesn't understand why growing older means she has to be more uncomfortable. At first she thought going into the city to the big department stores would be exciting, that she would finally learn how to be a woman. All it really meant was painful brassieres and itchy nylons that sagged all the time and having to sleep with rollers in one's hair. And drawing on one's face with rouges and pencils and plucking one's eyebrows and always being worried that one was not fashionable enough, or shapely enough, or clever enough to attract men. It wasn't glamourous. Sometimes it made her sad.

Annie never worried about being glamourous, and she still got boys like Francis Bonnefoy to kiss her. It's not jealousy she feels, Rose decides, at least not the kind she should be feeling.

"I don't know how it can mean nothing."

If Annie registers the hurt in her voice, she doesn't show it. "Ain't ya never kissed a boy before?"

"You know I haven't."

"Your loss, sister. It's the living _end_."

"I don't see how kissing a boy can be any more fun than kissing y-." Rose presses her lips together and clenches her hands in her lap.

Annie doesn't say anything for a while, but Rose can still hear her moving things on the vanity. Finally she clears her throat and says quietly, "Well, it's not. I like you better. But—"

"I know."

"'S just fer practicin'."

"I know."

"You're a girl and—"

"I _know_."

Rose digs her thumb nails into the palms of her hands until white-hot half-moons start to appear on the flesh. Her nail polish is chipping. She'll have to fix it before her mother sees. Women are supposed to be tidy.

"Rosie?"

"Hmmm?"

"Look at me."

Rose looks up reluctantly, and even if she feels like crying she can't help but giggling when she sees Annie's face. She's put two bright circles of rouge on her cheeks and is puckering her lips, which are now covered in red lipstick.

"Think I'm pretty?"

"Gorgeous." She is, too. But there's something about the bright splotches of colour against her otherwise natural skin that makes Rose's stomach sink. Annie's only fourteen, she remembers. She isn't a woman. She isn't tidy. She's messy. She dresses like a boy sometimes, still, even though there's always the softest indication of the coming breasts and hips beneath her clothes. Rose doubts she's even started having her "monthly visitors" yet. She doesn't know why that matters, but it does.

"Do I look like Marilyn Monroe?" Annie throws one hip out and poses with a hand in her hair, lips pursed and eyes downcast and sultry.

"Better."

"Hey."

"Hmm?"

Rose waits for Annie to speak, but she's kissed instead. Annie always tries to kiss like they do in the movies, where the men grab at the women and dip them backwards and tilt their faces back and forth. It isn't bad. Rose feels the lipstick transfer to her face, and when she's forced take a breath in, she can taste it, waxy and sweet. When Annie's done kissing her, she grins and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, smearing all the colours, then plops down next to Rose on the bed.

"Tell you what."

"What?"

"I'll stop kissing ol' Francis if you really want."

"Will you?"

"Yup. I'll never kiss another man 'til the day I get married if you don't want me to. Cross my heart and hope to die. Not even if we're going steady. And you can have all my kisses 'til then."

Rose smiles at her weakly. She still feels like crying for some reason. She knows this can't go on forever. Everything will change eventually.

Annie takes one of her hands and rubs at it fondly. It feels nice, just to sit and be close, even if their faces are covered in lipstick and Rose's stomach is turning in knots.

"Did I really look better than Marilyn Monroe?"

No. She didn't. Sometimes Rose imagines what Annie will be like when she's grown up and she imagines her with red lipstick and her hair all curled up, wearing gowns and gloves and jewels like in the magazines. She imagines her fuller and softer, saying charming, beautiful things like a real actress, and sometimes it's so much that Rose finds herself lying awake at night with her fingers between her legs. Sometimes she does that even when she imagines Annie as she really is. Either way, it's all a lie.

"Yes. You did."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Annie smiles at her and it's the best smile Rose has ever seen and it's infectious. She lets the happiness pour into her, but contains it again and looks at Annie seriously.

"Are you really going to save all your kisses for me?"

"Yeah, really!"

"Promise?"

Her lips are against hers again, but it's sweeter this time. It's not like the movie stars do. It's gentle, and warm; a kiss for sweethearts, and Rose's heart feels like it's about to burst with the weight of it all.

"I promise."


	20. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU 
> 
> A Tumblr anon requested something to do with Alfred feeling self-conscious about having braces, and Arthur making him feel better. And I, of course, took it somewhere stupid.

"Why me? What did I do to deserve this? It isn't fair!" Alfred was lying face down on Arthur's bed, wriggling around childishly. He rubbed his face back and forth on Arthur's pillow several times, and Arthur should have had the decency to be bothered by it. Instead he smiled at Alfred's pink cheeks and messy hair and the sour scowl on his face when he turned to Arthur.

"It isn't so bad, is it?" Arthur sat on the floor in front of his bed so that he was level with Alfred's face and handed him the bag of frozen vegetables wrapped in a towel. Alfred promptly held it to his lower jaw and whimpered, making an even more dramatically pained face.

"It's the worst! I hate this! I don't want braces."

"You'll be glad for them in the end. And anyway, you'll get used to them. They don't hurt forever."

Alfred pouted and pushed the bag harder against his cheek. "Promise?"

Arthur fought the urge to make fun of his friend's predicament, and solemnly nodded his head. "Promise, promise. If I survived them, so can you. And you're far braver than I am."

"That's true. You're a wimp," Alfred mused with equal seriousness, then smiled widely for a brief moment. "Ugh. Even smiling hurts."

"Is that working or do you want me to get something else?" Arthur gestured to the the bag of vegetables, careful not to let too much concern seep into his voice. He hated seeing Alfred in even the tiniest bit of pain. It brought out a ridiculous instinct to coddle him that might not be appropriate between the two teenage boys, even if Arthur wanted so badly to act on it.

Alfred just shook his head and moved the bag so it was under his other cheek. He sighed heavily with a worried, distant expression.

"You're really bothered by this, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"It's just braces. They're common. No one at school will care, if that's what you're worried about."

"I know, but..."

"But what?"

Alfred looked at Arthur for a long moment before he reached for his glasses on the nightstand and twirled them critically between his fingers. "Don't laugh, okay? It's just that I already have glasses, and those are stupid looking enough. And I'm taller than anyone in my grade and I break out all the time now and I stick out and now I have braces. I know it's dumb, but I don't want to look like some ugly dork, that's all."

Arthur was taken aback. Usually Alfred was rather confident about his appearance and didn't care what anyone else thought. For him to be so self-conscious was unusual and almost sad for Arthur to see.

He took the glasses from Alfred and folded them neatly on the nightstand. "You couldn't be ugly if you tried," Arthur said softly, and maybe a bit too sincerely, since Alfred gave him a funny look. "That is, those things don't make you ugly. Do you think people who have those things are ugly just for having them?"

"No, I guess not, but still. No one wants to kiss the guy with barbed wire in his mouth."

Arthur winced, not sure what to make of the shift in topic. Alfred had never shown any serious interest in dating or romance. He was still immature when it came to that, much to the frustration of many of their classmates."I don't know why you'd want to kiss a girl who was that superficial anyway."

Alfred blushed and switched the ice pack to his other cheek again to hide the pink skin. "I don't care about girls," he mumbled.

It took a few seconds for Arthur to register the comment, and when he did his mind began to race to find the meaning. Arthur had always had his little crushes on Alfred growing up. It was hard not to be drawn to the charismatic and friendly boy, and even harder not to fall for him when he could be so affectionate and sweet. Of course, he was also beyond irritating, but somehow that, too, was a part of his charm. Arthur handled his feelings with a graceful suppression, but if he had ever thought for one second that those feelings were reciprocated, he might have... it didn't matter. There was no way that Alfred meant what Arthur thought he meant. Arthur cleared his throat and shrugged.

"Then I don't know why you would want to kiss a boy that superficial."

"I don't care about boys either, Arthur, I-"

"Then I don't understand what you mean."

Alfred looked like he might cry and he put the bag of vegetables directly in front of his face. "You're so stupid, you know that? I don't care what people think, I just didn't want you to think I looked bad, or something."

"Me? Why me?" Arthur still couldn't bear to get his hopes up, but his heart was beating faster and faster.

"Don't make me say it."

"I don't know what you're trying to say, Alfred! You don't look bad, I told you, and I-"

"Would you kiss me?" Alfred blurted out the question, the bag of vegetables still covering most of his face. Even so, Arthur could see him cringe the moment he'd gotten the question out. A burning satisfaction began to bubble in Arthur's chest, but he fought to keep collected.

"Literally or hypothetically?"

Alfred seemed to consider the question earnestly before whispering, "Both."

"Ah. Well." Arthur wondered if Alfred could hear the smile in his voice and in the next instant found he didn't care. "Hypothetically, I don't see a reason why I wouldn't. And literally..." Before he could think too hard about the consequences, Arthur took the bag of vegetables out of Alfred's grasp and away from his face. Alfred's eyes were screwed shut, which was probably just as well since Arthur thought he might have lost his nerve if those pretty blue eyes had been looking up at him. He leaned forward and placed a gentle, controlled kiss on Alfred's lips. It was a tad awkward since they were at different angles and Arthur was kneeling in front of the bed, but it was still enough for the feeling of satisfaction to spill over inside of him.

Arthur pulled away carefully and waited for Alfred to open his eyes. He seemed shocked, but not upset. Arthur searched for something sweet to say, but all he could think of was, "Your lips are cold."

Alfred made a funny, choked noise that might have been a half-formed laugh, and then his hand was on the back of Arthur's head and was pulling him in clumsily for another kiss. It was even more awkward than the first, but far more eager, and Arthur returned every bit of Alfred's energy. The kiss was just on the brink of going well, when Alfred jerked back with a grunt.

"Ow, that really hurts." Alfred touched his mouth tenderly and winced.

Arthur couldn't hold back his laughter this time, and put the bag of vegetables back against Alfred's face. "Well, I guess that's enough kissing for one day, then."

Making an embarrassed sound, Alfred pushed the bag away and buried his face in Arthur's pillow once again. "I hate this! Braces ruin everything!"

Patting Alfred on the back, Arthur thought that his braces had done the exact opposite. He hoped the pain would subside soon, and not just for Alfred's sake.


	21. Big

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth and Emily get drunk, and their celebration takes a turn when Emily opens up.
> 
> Nyotalia, Human AU 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Underage drinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like writing nyo stuff and drew something random from semi-personal experience. I'm not condoning underage drinking in any way. Don't do that.

"Did you bring it?" Elizabeth reached out to take Emily's knapsack, smiling when she felt how heavy it was. The other girl scrabbled out of the window and pulled herself out onto the small bit of gently sloped rooftop. Emily flashed Elizabeth a devious grin and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Open it and see."

A surge of naughty excitement coursed through Elizabeth as she fumbled with the drawstring on the bag. She finally got the opening wide enough for her hand and reached in, digging past Emily's sweatshirt and jingling keys before her fingers slammed into smooth glass. Both girls giggled nervously as Elizabeth pulled out the bottle of alcohol and gingerly held it up to examine it in the moonlight.

"What it is it?"

Emily shrugged and grabbed the bottle, trying to get it open. "Label says Southern Comfort but I dunno what that is. Swiped it from the back of Daddy's booze cabinet. It was dusty, so I don't think he'll miss it for a while." With an exaggerated grunt, Emily finally got the bottle open. She held it up to her nose and took a cautious whiff. "Hoo boy, this smells like somethin' else. Here."

Elizabeth took the bottle and inhaled the odd scent of the alcohol. It smelled a little gross, but also sweet, like medicine. She licked her bottom lip and looked up excitedly at Emily.

"Well, happy birthday, Lizzie! Drink up!"

With a jittery laugh, Elizabeth put the opening of the bottle against her bottom lip, taking a deep breath through her nose before tipping some of the liquid into her mouth. She took too much and made the mistake of swishing the alcohol around her tongue and struggled to swallow, a sharp burning sensation following the trail of the drink. Passing the bottle clumsily to Emily, she coughed into her hand and pushed her glasses back up her nose.

"How do you feel?" Emily was smiling that silly smile where her dimples showed and her tongue peeked out in between her teeth. Elizabeth wanted to smile back, but she felt as if she couldn't move her face.

"Warm," she croaked, patting her cheeks, which were sure to be ruby red. "Take some."

Emily bravely slogged back her drink with less ceremony than Elizabeth had. She kept her eyes closed for a few seconds after she swallowed, then drew the back of her hand sensually across her mouth. Elizabeth felt the warmth creep down her neck and onto her chest, but chose to blame the alcohol.

"So?"

"It's nasty," Emily said with a silly drawl. "But I like it." She stuck her tongue out suggestively, then laughed at herself and gave the bottle back to Elizabeth.

After gearing herself up with another breath, Elizabeth took another, more moderate, drink. "The second time is definitely better."

"That's what all the girls say."

Elizabeth snorted as she passed the bottle back to Emily. "What's gotten into you tonight?"

"Oh, you're asking _me_? What's gotten into _you_ , Miss My Parents Are Gone So Let's Get Wasted?"

"Are you honestly going to complain that I'm finally acting like the rebellious teen you've always wanted me to be?"

"Hell naw." Emily winked and took a slightly longer pull of the alcohol. "That is better, shit."

They continued to chat and pass the bottle back and forth until Elizabeth got so hot she had to take off her sweater, leaving her in just a white tank top. She laid back on the roof and let Emily take over the bottle, enjoying the way the stars swam and undulated before her eyes. She didn't feel sick or dizzy, just pleasantly floaty and unbothered by anything happening. Maybe her mind was making more of being inebriated than was really happening, but everything felt wonderful against her skin. The cool air, the roof shingles against her bare shoulders, her own fingers as she stroked absentmindedly over her collar bone; it all left little ticklish trails of warm-cold behind.

Emily finally laid down, too, and swiveled her head messily to the side to smile at Elizabeth. Elizabeth just smiled back for a few moments, and would have continued to do so happily if there hadn't been a sudden crash on the sidewalk below them. Neither of them flinched and Emily started giggling.

"Uh oh. Dropped the bottle."

Elizabeth started giggling, too. "Whoops."

"Whoops."

"Whoops!"

"WHOOPS!"

They shouted at the sky one last time before a dog somewhere in the neighborhood started barking and Elizabeth shushed Emily through strangled laughter. It took a few minutes and many false starts before they both settled down. Elizabeth went back to staring at the stars, but was aware that Emily had gone back to staring at her. She let it happen. Emily stared sometimes. It probably didn't mean anything, and she probably didn't know she was doing it. Elizabeth even liked it a little. No one stared at her, at least not how Emily stared at her.

"What am I going to do without you?"

Elizabeth snorted. "When?"

"After next year."

"Don't worry about it."

"I have to.  You're going to be in college and I'm going to be stuck here."

"Em, it's just one year. It'll be over before you know it. And we have all this year together."

Emily made a small confused sound and reached over to grab Elizabeth's wrist. "But you just said a year will go fast. So this year will go fast. Years are all the same amount of time. That's why they're years. I don't want this year to go fast."

Elizabeth looked over at her friend. Even in the harsh moonlight, she could see that her cheeks were blotchy and red. Her blue eyes looked wet and wide, and from the set of her trembling lips, she looked like she was on the verge of tears. A strange, scared feeling rooted itself in Elizabeth's stomach.

"Oh, don't be a sad drunk," she quipped, trying to tease Emily back to normal.

"No, you don't get it." Emily let go of her wrist and rolled over onto her back again. She breathed heavily, and Elizabeth couldn't stop her eyes from wandering down to watch her chest heaving. Elizabeth wondered how soft it would feel to fall asleep against that chest for a split second, then groggily shook her head and sat up. The drunk, happy feeling seemed to drain away, leaving her suddenly self-conscious and cold.

"You don't get it," Emily muttered again.

"Explain it, then."

Emily took a long time thinking before she answered. "Do you ever feel small? Or like everyone wants you to be small? Like you're being smushed down and in and you're collapsin' because you're supposed to."

"I don't know."

"Like, when your dad yells at you. Or when boys treat you bad. Or you read somethin' and it tells you that you have to be this or that and buy this or that. You start being... less. Little pieces of you shrink and fall off. And you wanna fight it, you want to stop shrinkin' and start takin' up space. You wanna be in the way. You wanna make people step over you. You wanna feel somethin' huge. Y'know?"

Elizabeth's throat was getting tight for some strange reason, and her response came out barely above a whisper. "Yes."

"I don't feel that with you. I feel big. I feel like I take up so much space that I'm gonna explode into a million pieces and those pieces are gonna be so big. You don't expect me to be small. I feel so good and heavy and full and it's because you make me feel like that, you let me, and no one else does."

They sat in silence for a long time before Elizabeth sniffled and rubbed her cheek. "You're drunk, Em."

"Yeah."

"But I feel big with you, too."

Emily sat half way up. "Yeah?"

All Elizabeth could do was nod. Emily nodded back, and bit her lip. Elizabeth was so entranced by how it looked that she barely had time to brace herself when Emily flung her arms around her. The embrace was warmer and softer than she thought it could be. She'd hugged Emily before, but this was different, somehow. Emily whispered something unintelligible, and tried to move Elizabeth's face gently. She might have been trying to kiss her, but she seemed dizzy and sunk forward again. Elizabeth felt her wet lips on her cheek, then by her ear. The sensation sent an uncontrollable hot shiver down Elizabeth's spine and she clung tightly to Emily, who was still mumbling something. Suddenly, Emily went stiff in her arms and pushed her away. Elizabeth had barely disentangled herself when Emily leaned over the side of the roof and wretched.

After she had finished, they both slowly climbed back into the window. Elizabeth made Emily sit on the mat in the bathroom with a bottle of water while she went to hose the glass and vomit off the sidewalk.

Emily swore she no longer felt sick, just tired, and Elizabeth gave her some clothes to change into and ordered her into her bed. They'd shared a bed at sleepovers before, but now everything felt different, and Elizabeth found herself feeling shy next to her best friend. Emily noticed, but must have misinterpreted, since she looked distraught.

"Did I ruin your birthday?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Lizzie. I didn't-"

"Shhh. Stop." Elizabeth gingerly reached out and brushed a strand of hair over Emily's ear. Before she could convince herself not to, she leaned forward and kissed Emily's forehead. "Come here."

It took Elizabeth a long time to fall asleep. Even though this was the most comfortable she had ever been, wrapped beneath warm blankets with an even warmer body pressed against her, she was wide awake. Looking down at Emily's face, she knew that the floaty, happy feeling of being drunk could never compare to the way she felt now.

She had never felt bigger in her life.


	22. Old Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With America's help, England indulges in an old dirty habit to cope with stress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a craving for something somewhat domestic/fluffy and also cigarettes, and here we are. Just roll with it.

America was just about to doze off on the couch when he was startled by the slam of the front door. He sat up and wiped the drool off his face before grabbing the remote and flicking off the television. He'd just managed to take a casual pose before England walked in, looking grumpier than usual and twice as disheveled.

England looked at him with a deadpan expression for a long moment before saying, "I know you have a stash of cigarettes and I very much need for you to get me one right now."

Not even bothering to deny his continued dirty habit, America stood and gestured for England to follow him into the small, cluttered room that served as his home office. "Everything okay at the embassy?"

England made a cynical snorting noise behind him. "No less than usual."

America knelt down and rummaged around in the back of the bottom drawer of his desk. He finally found the pack, lighter and ashtray, and handed them up to England. "They probably taste extra nasty. I've had these for a while."

"Thank you. I should be embarrassed to ask, but I'm not."

"I should be embarrassed to have them, but I'm not."

"Desperate times?"

"Usually."

England laughed at that, but it still sounded tired and hollow. "Sit in the garden with me?"

"Of course."

America took his hand and led him out into the backyard to sit on the beat up, but comfy cushioned wicker loveseat. It was still light out, the yard soaked in gentle summer warmth. England sat with a huff, and quickly opened the pack of cigarettes. He shot America a questioning look when he saw that about a half dozen cigarettes were missing.

"I only smoke 'em after we've had a big fight," he explained sheepishly. "Like I said, I've had that pack for a while, so..."

"I don't know if I should be offended at how many are gone, or impressed by how many aren't." England smiled kindly at him, and plucked a cigarette out, placing it between his lips. He flicked the lighter impatiently, but couldn't manage to get it going, becoming increasingly frustrated.

"Here, let me." America took the lighter from him and flicked it to life, the small bright flame dancing for just a moment against the tip of England's cigarette before he pulled it away.

England took a long, grateful drag, then tilted his head back to exhale a thin column of smoke. He coughed and winced, and shot America a wry look. "My god, those have gone stale."

"Told you. Old pack."

"Hmmm."

America let him enjoy the cigarette in silence for a few moments before putting an arm around his shoulders. "So, are you really okay?"

Sighing out his nose, England nodded and tapped away some ash. "It seems today was nothing more than a conspiracy to raise my blood pressure. I don't know why they called me in. It was a waste of time."

"I'm sorry, that sucks."

England laughed bitterly. "No, what "sucks" is that I had to give up a day of vacation with you to be blathered at by a bunch of fools who think I have the answer to everything when they are the ones who are supposed to be making decisions, not me. I'm not sure which I prefer: when they deign to yell at me, or when they ignore me all together. At least the latter would have let me stay in your bed this morning."

America leaned over and kissed his temple. "I missed you."

"That doesn't make me feel any better, you know." England leaned his head against America's shoulder, then took another pull on the cigarette.

"I know, but I want you to know it. I missed you. It was boring without you."

"Now there's something I thought I'd never hear you say. Usually I'm what _is_  boring."

"I love you anyway."

England looked up at him. "And if I didn't love you as much as I do, I'd take more offense to that "anyway" business."

America laughed and kissed him crookedly on the mouth. "Fuck, those did go stale. Put that shit out, I'll go buy you a new pack."

"I appreciate the enthusiasm for my impending relapse, but no, thank you. I feel better now." England took one final drag on the cigarette then put it out, placing the ashtray and pack on the ground. "Now, if you think you can stomach it, could I have a proper kiss?"

"You can have a helluva lot more than that, if you want."

America kissed England slowly, not minding the residual smoky smell and taste so much any more. He drew him in closer, wrapping the arm that had been resting over England's shoulders around him so he could press his hand between England's shoulder blades. England responded with a sigh and cupped America's cheek tenderly with his hand before combing his hair, skimming down his neck, and finally resting it against his chest. America hoped he could feel how hard his heart was beating, but pressed his own hand over England's just in case. He felt England clutch at his shirt as he tilted his head back to let America take even more control of their kissing.

Realizing he was still dressed up in his work clothes, America let go of England's hand and shoulders in favor of loosening his tie and fumbling with the top button of his collared shirt. England allowed it with a laugh, which quickly turned into a groan as America kissed beneath his jaw and along his throat. America would have continued if England hadn't gently pushed his face away.

"As much as I enjoy where this is headed, I don't think your hedges are quite that high, darling."

"Boooorrrrrriiiiiinnnnggggggg," America teased, but then kissed England's cheek playfully.

England played along with a grumble, then shrugged out of his suit jacket, folding it over the back of the loveseat before laying his head in America's lap, legs flipping awkwardly over the arm rest. He pulled America's arm over his middle, laying his own hand over America's and lacing their fingers together. America relished in the cuddling. It wasn't so often that England so outwardly demanded affection.

They relaxed in happy silence as the sun began to set, casting rich orange and purple beams of light through the trees and dappling their little loveseat. After a few minutes, England lifted America's hand and kissed the back of it.

"Thank you."

"For what? I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did."

"Besides enabling your delinquency, what did I do?"

"More than you think." England smiled up and him. "Just this is more than enough. And I'm very lucky to have it."

America's heart genuinely fluttered, but he couldn't help replying with a little more teasing. "Jesus, it's weird when you get all sappy. You better start yelling at me soon or I'll get used to this."

"I'll only be this kind until you buy more cigarettes. For your sake."

"Deal," America said with laugh, vowing to never purchase another pack for the rest of his life.


	23. Sticks & Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fem!usuk Human AU
> 
> Alice patches Emily up after a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: profanity, mild mentions of blood & violence, use of homophobic slur

"Ow, that hurts!"

"Sit still or it will hurt worse!" Alice wrestled Emily back up onto the bathroom counter and went back to dabbing the shallow cut on her face gently.

The cold soapy water ran down Emily's cheek and along her jaw, and she pushed Alice away again to wipe it off. Sighing in frustration, Alice gave up on cleaning the long scratch and washed the towel out in the sink.

"I still don't understand what possessed you to get in a fight. That's not like you."

Emily shrugged and twisted around on the counter to prod at her bloody lip in the mirror. "I had to. On principle."

"Don't pick at that!" Once Emily was facing her again, Alice started cleaning the swollen lip, taking extra care to be gentle when Emily hissed and tried to jerk away. "What principle?"

"Ih duh-uhnt madduh."

"It does matter. And don't talk."

Emily pulled away with a laugh. "How am I supposed to not talk when you keep asking me questions?"

Alice rolled her eyes. "I'm surprised you can move your mouth at all. That is going to be quite the fat lip in a few hours."

" 's not so bad."

Alice shot her a withering look and crouched to look in the cabinet under the sink for the first aid kit. "Does it hurt?"

"Not the cut on my cheek, but my mouth is throbbing. And my head."

"What happened, Emily?" Alice asked, straightening to look her in the eye.

"I told you. It doesn't matter."

"You're sitting on my counter with cuts and bruises on your face and blood on your shirt and you're telling me it doesn't matter? It matters to me!"

Emily hopped off the counter and tried to walk out of the bathroom, but Alice blocked her. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? But I couldn't help it!"

"Why?"

"They were talking shit about you, okay?" Emily shouted, a wild, hurt expression flickering across her face before she sighed heavily and sat on the lid of the toilet seat.

"Who?" Alice asked quietly, taking some ointment and a packet of gauze from the first aid kit. She casually dabbed the anti-bacterial onto Emily's cheek and went to work covering it with the gauze.

"No, I'm not telling you who. You'll just write them up and—"

"Of course I will! That's my job—"

"I know, but—"

"—and they deserve it if this is what they did to you!"

"It's not about me! Okay, listen. It was during the assembly today, when you went up to give your president's speech or whatever. There were these girls sitting behind me and they just started saying all this...stuff about you and it pissed me the fuck off and I told them to shut up. But they wouldn't, and it was this whole thing...anyway, they followed me after school let out and yeah."

Alice crossed her arms and was silent for a few moments. While it hurt to know that people were talking about her behind her back, it hurt even more that Emily had been hurt because of it. She knew she was lucky to have a friend who would stand up for her, someone who was loyal and loving and trustworthy. But she also couldn't help being angry at Emily for being so reckless.

"What did they say?"

"What?"

"What did these girls say about me?"

"No, I don't want to repeat it."

"No, you have to. I want to know if this was worth you getting beat up."

Emily sucked her teeth and shook her head. "This is nothing. I've had worse."

"Oh, no you have not. Don't act tough with me. Now tell me what they said or I'll email the principal tonight and you'll be in her office Monday morning and you can explain it all to her instead."

"You would not."

"Try me."

Emily stared up at her, but Alice didn't back down. Finally Emily groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"They were making fun of how you were dressed and they...they called you ugly."

"Subjective."

"What?"

"That's subjective." Alice swallowed thickly, trying her best to sound unaffected. It stung, but she knew it was petty and meaningless. "Just because they think I'm ugly doesn't mean I am. Hardly anything you should pick a fight over."

"But—"

"No buts. What else?"

"Fine. They called you a know-it-all and a snob—"

"You call me those things regularly and you're my best friend."

"Right, but it's only okay when _I_  do it, because I love you." Emily picked her head up to smile at Alice teasingly, and Alice barely suppressed the urge to smile back.

"What else?"

"Uh, nothing really."

"Liar. What else?"

"Alice, I don't wanna—"

"What. Else."

Emily blew a big breath out her lips and scratched at the cut on her cheek, refusing to make eye contact now. "They said you were a lesbian."

That hit Alice right in the stomach and she turned away, busying herself with straightening the first aid kit and wiping down the counter. She had never even uttered that word to herself, and hearing it out loud and aimed right at her scared her more than she knew how to handle. Alice had hoped that she'd grow out of her feelings for other girls, that she'd find a boy in high school that would make her want to be straight. But when that didn't happen, she at least had prayed that no one would ever suspect that she— the quiet, bookish, plain class president— was a lesbian.

Collecting herself, Alice shook her head. "Is that a bad thing? It's not insulting to be a lesbian, so it's not insulting to be called one, don't you think?"

"No, shit, don't twist my words! That's not what I meant."

"Well then what did you mean, because you obviously thought you should fight them over that," Alice snapped and slammed the lid to the first aid kit down.

"Alice, no, I don't think it's bad, I'm just—"

"Then what? Why did it even matter?" Alice could feel her throat closing up from trying not to cry.

"Because they called you a fucking _dyke_!" Emily's voice cracked and Alice looked at her in surprise. There was a wet streak running down Emily's right cheek, and she was trying to keep the tears from running onto the bandage on her left. "They called you _that_  and I was so fucking pissed off, I couldn't handle it, I couldn't let it go, I just—" Emily sobbed into her hands and Alice sank to her knees in front of her, touched and confused and scared.

"Emily, shhhh, don't cry. It's not worth it. It's not worth it." Alice slowly lifted Emily's face and wiped away the tear marks on her face, mascara smearing against her thumb. She smoothed down Emily's hair and tucked it behind her ears, at a loss for what to do. Emily's face was still crumpled up, angry and terrified, but also genuinely sad, and it was all Alice could do to not cry herself. Alice kissed her quickly on the forehead, then pulled her into a hug, letting her sniffle on her shoulder.

"You're so good to me, you know that? I don't know anyone else who would have defended me like that. And you shouldn't have. I wish you hadn't. But I'm happy I have such a good friend—"

"Stop—"

"No, you are. You're a good friend."

Emily struggled out of her embrace. "Stop saying that! I know, okay? I _know_. And that's why— I know you're not— I mean...whatever you are, I am too, so when they said that—"

"I don't understand," Alice said, panic rising in her throat.

Shaking her head emphatically, Emily kept rambling."I couldn't let it go, I love you so much— I mean, I _love you_  and...it's just not _fair_! I can't. I just want to— awww, fuck it!"

Before Alice could react, Emily had grabbed her face and kissed her right on the mouth. Alice registered the sticky cold tears stuck between their skin and the heady smell of soap and anti-bacterial ointment before her brain processed Emily's beat up mouth against her own. When she finally realized she was being kissed, warmth flooded her face and stomach and she found she couldn't move her arms. A happy terror filled her chest, and even though the kiss seemed to last a lifetime, it was over far too soon.

As Emily pulled away, Alice could taste a faint metallic tang, unsure if it was blood or the iron bite of nerves. Emily's eyes were halfway closed, dreamy for a moment. When she came back to herself, her eyes widened and her face paled and she pushed Alice way. Slumping down ungracefully onto the bathmat, Alice couldn't think of anything to say. Emily's mouth opened and closed twice, then she covered her face with shaking hands, rubbing her eyes and making a bigger mess of her mascara. She leapt up suddenly from the toilet lid and and stepped over Alice clumsily, shooting panicked glances between Alice, the mirror and the door.

"I— wow, I'm...sorry, I have to go. Thank you, sorry. I just— thanks for the— sorry, I have to...bye."

Alice sat dumbfounded, unable to move until she heard the front door slam. Then she burst out into a fit of ecstatic, weepy laughter. This afternoon had had too many twists and turns to unravel just yet, but Alice knew that it could be the beginning of something wonderful.


	24. A Matter of Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human AU   
> Warnings: Profanity

"You're cheating!"

"I am not!"

Arthur felt the muscle of Alfred's back fidget and flex against his, and for a moment he felt a ticklish urge to pull away.

"You're on your tiptoes," he whined, and pushed against Alfred to stop his squirming.

"Swear I'm not, you're just shorter than me," Alfred pushed back with a half grunt, half laugh and nearly knocked Arthur over.

Digging his feet into the bath mat, Arthur turned his head to see their ridiculous struggling in the dimly lit bathroom mirror. He couldn't see anything below their waists on account of the counter, but everything else looked perfectly aligned. "We are the exact same height, Alfred. Look."

Alfred turned his head and pointed at the mirror. "I am, and you're shorter! See, cuz my shoulders start there, and yours are there, so— "

Smacking his hand down, Arthur traced the slope of Alfred's reflection. "But your neck is shorter! The tops of our heads are the same height. If anything, I'm the one who's a little taller."

"Your hair is just fluffier!" Alfred teased, trying to subtly hold his head higher.

With a well placed elbow jab to Alfred's side, Arthur put a stop to his craning. "My hair is not fluffy!"

"Ow! Whatever, dude." Alfred recoiled from the poke and nearly lost his purchase on the mat. "You're pushing into me, I can't stand all the way up straight."

"Your posture is shit and that's why you can't stand straight," Arthur quipped, putting his hands on his hips and leaning more weight backwards on to Alfred's shoulders.

"So you admit I'm taller than this?" Alfred grinned wolfishly at the mirror, then pushed against Arthur with renewed gusto. He turned to look over his shoulder and Arthur could feel his slight panting roll warmly across his ear and cheek. Arthur shrugged his shoulder and looked away, the ticklish feeling returning, but not quite overpowering his need to be right.

"Absolutely not."

Alfred tsked loudly. "Turn around."

"What? No— "

He grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and sloppily twirled him around. "Look me in the eye and tell me I'm not taller," he said intensely, and closed the already tiny gap between them.

Arthur held his breath and tilted his head ever so slightly; partly a reflex, partly some unadmitted hope. Alfred continued to grip his shoulders, but he didn't seem aware, still squaring up with a defiant, almost-pout.

Some strange force was pushing and pulling him closer to Alfred, and he felt himself sway the tiniest bit forward as he finally exhaled and allowed himself to breathe, chin lifting with zero effort or conscious intention on his part. He stopped worrying about whether his nose was even with Alfred's, only if they would be in the way. He didn't care if they were actually eye to eye, he just wanted to close his and feel Alfred's blue ones still staring at him. After being so quietly desperate for a little space, all the space between them felt like a monumental inconvenience.

He felt Alfred jerk back as if shocked, and Arthur came out of his trance. Alfred squinted at him and cocked his head to one side and then the other, his hands slowly running down from Arthur's shoulders to his arms and almost taking his hands. Instead, Alfred let them drop to his sides, puffing his chest up almost imperceptibly. Arthur felt incredibly small all of a sudden, which seemed like both the worst and best thing in the world. Still, the tickle in the pit of his stomach insisted on shifting away and bubbling up the first words Arthur could think to spit out.

"Your glasses are fogging up."

Alfred gave a little shake of his head. "Y-yeah, you're really close."

Clearing his throat, Arthur brought his hands up to explain, but finding no room between them, ended up flapping them to the side like some hideous, dumbstruck bird. "No, I mean if you were really that much taller than me they wouldn't be because my mouth wouldn't be….um"

Alfred visibly shifted his now wide-eyed stare down to Arthur's lips. "I don't think that's proof."

"Right."

"So. Yeah."

Neither moved. Arthur could almost feel Alfred's stomach gently inflating against his as he took four, five, six slow breaths.

"I think you're taller," he finally whispered.

"Really?"

"Just a little. Because I feel- well, I'm looking up a bit and—"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm looking down."

"Yes."

"At you."

Arthur swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Mystery solved."

"Yeah." Alfred pressed his lips together, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, looking down.

"Are you alright?"

"Um, yeah, I just— ". He kept rubbing his neck and cocked his head again, a shy smile blossoming on his lips.

"What?"

"This just really… hurts my neck because you're so fucking short."

It took Arthur a moment to register what he had said and that his smile was no longer sweet, but shamelessly gleeful. He made a disgusted noise and gave Alfred a half-hearted shove to the chest as he turned away to leave the bathroom.

"Hey."

"What?" Arthur snapped, but was denied the pleasure of giving it any real bite as he was spun around again. This time one of Alfred's hands went to the small of Arthur's back, the other to his hip, and, with an unceremonious yank forward, their lips met.

The split second Arthur had to enjoy the melting pressure of Alfred's mouth could have been minutes or hours and it still wouldn't have been enough time to understand what was happening. When Alfred's lips were gone, Arthur felt disoriented, feeling like he was surfacing and being pulled deeper under all at once.

"See? You were on your tip toes," Alfred murmured, a kinder smile lighting up his blushing face.

Arthur softened for just a moment before the joke landed. And then he was shoving at Alfred's chest again before tossing his arms around his neck and pulling him— down— for another kiss.


	25. Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth meets her neighbor in an unconventional way.
> 
> Human AU, Fem!England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be uploading some prompt fills from tumblr that were supposed to be exclusive to that blog, but got a little larger than the intended mini/drabble size. If you are interested in checking out the remaining 20 or so tumblr-exclusive mini prompts currently on my blog, feel free to stop by or follow and check out the My Stories page on my blog. That's also where I take requests, so if that's something you're interested in doing, come see if I'm taking any. Same username as always. Thanks, and happy reading!

**HI**

Elizabeth had been looking at the message written in black marker on neon green paper for nearly five minutes and still hadn't decided if it was actually for her or not. The sign was taped to the window directly across from hers in the next building over, separated by the narrow alley. Elizabeth had only been living in her new apartment for about a week, so she'd never thought to try to peek into that tiny window and see who her neighbor was. The fact that that neighbor had should have been unsettling to her, but there was something charming about the lumpy block letters and the smiley face in the corner. Before she could over think it, she grabbed a piece of computer paper and a sharpie and wrote,

**HELLO**

The message in the window didn't change for the rest of the day, and she never saw anyone in the apartment— not that she had been looking. She went to bed feeling a little foolish, but left the message up, just in case.

In the morning, a new sign had been posted.

**HI! I'M ALFRED**

Whatever space wasn't taken up by the letters was covered in chunky, hastily drawn stars. Elizabeth smiled, but a small part of her wondered if she should continue with the messages. She didn't know this man, and while he was probably harmless enough, there was always the chance he wasn't. Mulling it over, she gently peeled the sign off her window and tossed it in the recycling bin, before writing a new message.

**HELLO, ALFRED**

She decided not to give her name.

* * *

 

It was two days before a new message popped up, this one with a small, horrible drawing of a cat.

**CUTE CAT**

Elizabeth smiled and looked at her orange and white Scottish fold lounging on the narrow window sill.

"Hear that, Ginger. Alfred thinks you're cute."

The cat gazed up at her with a vaguely judgmental expression, and Elizabeth's face warmed as she realized that she'd used her neighbors name so casually. How else she was supposed to use it, she didn't know, but it felt improper. Elizabeth took a new sheet of paper, and drew a large arrow facing down and wrote,

**GINGER**

30 minutes later, there was a sign across the way that said,

**HI, GINGER!**

Elizabeth spent the rest of the day shamelessly finding excuses to walk back and forth in front of the window, but never saw anyone inside the apartment across the alley.

* * *

 

Time passed and the messages continued. Sometimes there would be long gaps between them, but they always reappeared.

**RAIN SUCKS**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR**

**NEW CURTAINS?**

And Elizabeth would always smile and reply.

**I LIKE IT**

**TO YOU TOO**

**I MADE THEM**

It was a wonder that they never crossed paths while posting messages in all of the months their strange conversation had continued. Elizabeth was content to play anonymously, and only rarely had the smallest amount of curiosity about what Alfred might look like. Perhaps the best thing about it was that he could look like anything. Short, tall, young, old, thin, fat, fair skinned, dark skinned, scrawny, fit- none of it mattered. He could be all of those things or none of them, depending on what Elizabeth felt like imagining that day. And she did imagine him often, as she would never see him.

Until, as luck, or fate, or the odd chance that she'd woken up earlier than normal would have it, she did see him. And he saw her. She'd been in the middle of posting a good morning message when he had come into view of the window, holding his own. He was a young man, maybe about her age, but it was hard to tell since he was wearing glasses. With a strange pang of nervousness, Elizabeth recognized he was also incredibly handsome. And half naked. They stared each other down for a long moment, and Elizabeth became very conscious of her bedhead and the fact she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her pyjama top, just as Alfred seemed to become very conscious of the fact that his hair was wet and he was only wearing a towel around his waist. After a long moment he dropped his sign, waved, and then held his finger up as if asking her to wait before darting out of the window. Elizabeth ripped her sign off the window and bounced up and down a few times, then quickly set to finger combing her hair as she ran into her bedroom to pull on a sweatshirt.

She made it back to the window just before he did, now wearing jeans and white t-shirt. They stared, smiling and terrified, for what felt like forever before he pointed to the base of his window. Elizabeth looked down at her own, seeing the small rusty latch. She looked back up, stomach twisting in knots. She brushed her hair behind her ears nervously, and before she could over think it, nodded. Alfred practically jumped up and down before scrambling to undo his latch and push the window up. Elizabeth let out something like an ecstatic laugh before she attacked her own latch, struggling to turn it with her over-excited fingers. She tried to push the window up, but it was old and stuck. Ramming her shoulder into it, she could see that Alfred had his window open and was flapping his hands around in an awkward show of encouragement. A few more pushes and the window finally shot upwards, and Elizabeth let out whoop of joy, collapsing over the windowsill, cold air hitting her hands and face.

And there was Alfred, across the alley, maybe 12 feet away, smiling at her. He was also on his knees, leaning out over the windowsill, and her heart fluttered. Everything she had imagined had been wrong. Everything she had been afraid of had been wrong. It was like meeting an old friend for the first time.

"Hello!", she called out, then winced when her voice echoed down the walls and alley.

"Hi!", Alfred chirped with a laugh, obviously so excited that he hardly knew what to do with his arms or face. His smile was a mile wide and he kept brushing his hair off his forehead, giving himself a progressively more heinous cowlick.

She felt a sudden shyness. This was so unlike her, to be giddy over some silly situation. Part of her wanted to turn and run, shut the curtains, move out of the apartment, out of the city, and never think about Alfred again.

But instead, she squared her shoulders and said, "I'm Elizabeth."


	26. Illuminated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred sees Arthur in a whole new light. (pun intended, go ahead and groan)
> 
> Human AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mattysones on tumblr requested "illuminated" as a one word prompt. 
> 
> This is a short fic, but the next chapter is a continuation. So between the two of them, there are over 1000 words, which qualifies it (in my book) as a one-shot and not a mini-prompt. Fight me.

There was something funny about the light coming in from the window. It was like it was more golden or glittery or something, or maybe Arthur was right and Alfred did need to clean his room. The light just looked weird because of all the dust particles. That was all.

But it was distracting as fuck, the way it pushed into the room and fell across Arthur's head and shoulders, little beams of it getting caught behind him and falling around him, sticking to him like honey. Alfred couldn't help glancing at him, all lit up and warm and fuzzy looking, even if it meant his tenuous grasp at first place in Mario Kart was slipping.

It was one of the few games Arthur could play, and even that was a stretch. Alfred had long mastered every course, but Arthur still struggled to make it in the top five with any consistency. But he tried, and for a while Alfred had had the uncomfortable suspicion that the only reason he tried at all _was_ Alfred.

Alfred slid down to third, and another glance to his right saw Arthur smiling, then furrowing his brow and leaning forward off the sofa, as if getting closer to the tv screen would make him faster. He still jerked the controller around without any coordination, but there was something cute about seeing him so animated about something.

Cute? Alfred shook his head and glared at the tv, trying to reclaim his spot in first. He had nearly slid back into tunnel vision when, out of nowhere, Arthur's character went zipping past him. With an ecstatic whoop, Arthur scooted even further forward, butt nearly slipping off the sofa. Alfred stared at him, barely keeping his fingers working on the controller, as Arthur bit his lip, scrunched up his nose in concentration, then smiled the biggest, silliest grin as the fanfare of the finish line blared from the tv. He set the controller on the floor and put his hands up, cheering at his own victory. The syrupy sunlight bent and filtered through his outstretched fingers and down his arms and Alfred dropped his controller.

"I won! Can you believe that? I actually won!" Arthur crowed, turning to Alfred with his hands still up the air, and grinning at him expectantly. The weird glittery light shifted, moving around Arthur's shoulders as the broad of his back blocked it out. His face was golden and pink, his eyes darker than normal from the strange, beautiful shadows being cast. He started to bring his hands down, as if to go in for a double high-five, but then Alfred was reaching out, cupping either side of Arthur's face and mashing their mouths together.

The only things that registered for Alfred were the warm puff of air against his lips as Arthur exhaled in surprise, and the faint, warming tingle of the sunlight on his hands as they moved to cradle the back of Arthur's head.


	27. Dude (Illuminated Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the previous chapter. 
> 
> Human AU   
> Warnings: Profanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested "dude" as a one word prompt. I decided to make it a sequel to Illuminated.

The back of Arthur's neck felt like it was burning, and so did his cheeks. Alfred had to feel it, had to be getting his face and fingers singed by the awful volcano that was erupting inside of Arthur. He was kissing him, Alfred was kissing him, and it was the strangest and most glorious thing that had ever happened.

Arthur gasped against Alfred's lips, going still even as everything inside him was squirming. He abruptly dropped his hands to Alfred's shoulders, a little too harshly perhaps, so he ran his thumbs over the ridge of them once. It was too overwhelming. The 6 whole seconds that had passed between the time it had taken him to turn to his friend for a high-five and for that friend's mouth to hit his was too overwhelming. Something close to a shudder passed through Arthur involuntarily, and he found himself pushing against Alfred's shoulders, pushing away.

Alfred ducked his head to the side and down, eyes closed, as if he had been slapped.

"Fuck."

"Alfred."

"Fuck. Dude."

"Alfred, I—"

"No no no, fuck."

Running his hands through his hair and pulling at it like he was on the verge of breakdown, Alfred shook his head back and forth and started hyperventilating. Arthur's hands twitched to touch him, to comfort him, but he couldn't bring himself to close the gap.

"Dude. Dude." Alfred slid off the sofa and puddled awkwardly on the floor, knees drawing up, but spread wide. He balanced his elbows on his knees, cupping his hands on the back of his head and hunkering down. The back of his neck was a red as Arthur's felt, and his shoulders were shaking.

"I can't believe I fucking… I'm sorry, dude… fuck… dude."

"Alfred, stop saying dude," Arthur barked, laughter bubbling up out of giddiness and a hint of nerves.

"I fucked up, I fucked up." Alfred was staring resolutely ahead, hands pointing forward and making emphatic jabbing motions as if he was trying to prove his point to an invisible person in front of him. With a shaky sigh, he took off his glasses and set them aside, the rubbed his face repeatedly with both hands.

Slowly, Arthur slipped down of the sofa and sat next to Alfred on the floor. He took a few breaths before scooting closer, nudging his shoulder against Alfred's.

"Hey."

Alfred grunted in response, the sound a mix between a sob and a snarl.

"Hey. Look at me." Arthur waited for Alfred to look, and when he didn't, reached over and peeled Alfred's hands away from his face. His skin was splotchy and clammy looking from all the panicked rubbing, and his eyes looked watery and cold. Arthur pursed his lips and gently brushed the rumpled hair on Alfred's forehead aside, earning a slight flinch. "Hey," Arthur said again, almost a whisper this time.

"Stop saying hey," Alfred said humorlessly, eyes obviously locked on Arthur's mouth.

Arthur breathed and let his eyes roam Alfred's face for a few moments before resolutely reaching out to tilt Alfred's chin up, leaning in and kissing him. He had never felt Alfred be so still in his life, so hard and cold. Arthur thought he'd misinterpreted, and pulled away, but Alfred followed him, knocking his forehead against Arthur's. He was holding his breath still, and Arthur did the same, waiting for whatever was going to come next.

Alfred exhaled first, the tail end of a shaky laugh escaping and ghosting across Arthur's hot cheeks.

"Dude," he whispered in disbelief, and then Arthur let go of his own breath, too.


	28. Royals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's feelings for Emily come under fire in the aftermath of the school dance. 
> 
> Human AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rotifora on tumblr requested "royals" as a one word prompt on tumblr.

Arthur's cell phone rang loudly, the familiar Jurassic Park theme letting him know Emily would be on the other end. He blinked painfully at the screen and rolled onto his back, staring at the plain white ceiling above his bed as he answered the call.

"Hullo?"

"Artie! Are you up? Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No, I was just—"

"Cool! Okay, so some of us are going to get food right now. Wanna come? I'll pick you up!"

Arthur pulled the phone away from his face for moment to check the time. "The dance is over already?"

"Nah, but it was boring. They started playing all that mushy slow song stuff after I got crowned, so we decided to bounce." There was some muffled cheering in the background, and Emily shushed her companions with a laugh.

"Crowned? Wait, did you win—"

"Homecoming Queen, yeah, isn't that nuts? I thought Lizzie had that on lock for sure, but yeah! I have a stupid crown and everything."

Arthur smiled to himself. "God save the queen."

"Shut up." He could hear Emily was smiling, too, and he was pleased with himself for making the quip. There was some more chatter in the background and a male voice hollered "Is he coming or not?" gruffly, before Emily shushed them again and the noise died down. "Hold on a second, lemme move somewhere else."

Arthur waited patiently, hearing only rustling and breathing for a few moments.

"Okay, sorry. Anyway, do you want to come?"

"I don't know, Em. You'll all be dressed up, and I won't so it—"

"So dress up. It's not like you don't have plenty of old man dress shirts in your closet. I've seen it."

"It's not really my… thing…"

"Oh, come on! I want you to come. I'm still mad at you for not coming to the dance. You owe me!"

"You can't hold that against me. You know I can't dance," Arthur teased.

"Bet I could've made ya," Emily teased back, and Arthur felt his stomach tighten.

"Maybe."

"Oh, no, definitely could have. I'd've had you shakin' that scrawny butt in 20 minutes flat, guaranteed."

Arthur exhaled self-consciously. Even after all the years they'd been friends, he could never quite work out if she meant to be flirtatious, or if it was just a function of her outgoing personality. He generally assumed it was the latter. "I'll thank you to leave my butt out of this."

Emily laughed and hummed to herself. She was quiet for a long moment, and Arthur just sighed, content to have the silly little conversation as long as it lasted.

"You know, I would have gone with you if you'd asked," she said gently.

"What?"

"The dance. I know that's why you didn't go. "

Arthur's face flamed embarrassment. "I didn't go because I don't like dances. Besides, you went with Toris, so it doesn't matter."

Emily laughed again, but this time it didn't sound as happy. "I only went with Toris because he asked me! I was waiting for you, I thought you were going to. It seemed like that was….the way you were acting, I don't know. You got all weird."

"I got all weird?"

"Yes! I mean, I don't know. I thought you would. I would have asked you, but I knew you'd say no and make it awkward because you always like to be difficult and—"

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. About this stuff, you do."

A flash of hurt got the better of him. "Well, I don't know why you told Toris yes if you were doing all this pining for me. That seems cruel."

"Oh, wow, if either of us is pining, it's you. And I happen to like Toris. He's sweet, and smart, and he, unlike you, actually got up the courage to ask me! Let's think about that, okay? Toris, quiet little Toris, actually asked me. And you didn't."

"Oh, so I'm a coward now?" Arthur sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, the hand not holding the phone gripping the comforter angrily.

"Arthur—"

"And anyway, your entire bloody theory relies on the absurd notion that I actually feel that way about you."

Emily went silent, and Arthur knew he had gone too far.

"Wow."

"Emily, I'm—"

"No, you know what? I'm not going to wait around for you forever, Artie. I'm just not," she said sadly. The obnoxious beep of a car horn echoed somewhere in the background. "And I'm going to go out with my friends now. I'd still like it if you came. Text me if you change your mind."

The phone clicked before Arthur could say anything. He tossed his cell onto his night stand and flopped back onto his bed, legs still hanging over the edge. The position made his thighs and stomach burn, but he didn't care. He ran his hands over his heated face, and then stared once more at the ceiling not knowing what to do. This time, the ceiling was blurry.


	29. Jugular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a little hickey among friends...boyfriends...countries??? Look, it's a fic about hickeys. I don't know how to make a fun, alluring summary out of that. It's a bruise. 
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Vague mentions of rough sex maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested "jugular" as a one word prompt. Technically this is a continuation of "Mini Prompt #22: Tumblr" that is on my— you guessed it— tumblr, exclusively. Feel free to check it out first if you'd like, but it is not necessary to understand this story. Same username as always.

"Does it look like it's going away?" America moved the washcloth filled with ice away from the side of his neck for a moment so England could inspect the plum-colored splotch staining his skin.

"Not remotely," England said, perhaps with a little too much pride since America grabbed an ice-cube from the bucket on the table and threw it at him.

"This is all your fault."

"Thank you."

"It's not funny! What if they can see it past the collar of my shirt?"

"Oh, calm down. It isn't high enough to see."

America pouted and sat back in the ugly green hotel chair, pressing the ice to his neck again, and muttering something that sounded like it might have been, "fucking vampire".

Smirking, England turned his attention back to straightening up the room. He had already re-made the bed, and was in the process of getting dressed, but couldn't find one of his shoes. Poking underneath the bed with his foot, England watched America massaging the cloth full of ice over his neck with a wicked satisfaction. They were usually good about not fooling around during conferences, but America had provoked him all afternoon with dirty messages and a clumsy game of footsie.

After the conference had adjourned for the day, they'd practically sprinted back to America's room. It wasn't long before England had had him flat on his back, squirming and whining as England tortured the skin to the side of his jugular. There was something so juvenile— but thrilling all the same— about leaving love bites, especially since America was so sensitive. England had had to cover America's mouth with the hand that hadn't been busy elsewhere just to keep him from alerting everyone on the floor as to what they were up to.

He finally found his missing shoe and sat on the bed while he put it on, still watching America attend to his hickey. America pressed the ice against his skin a little harder, but let up with hiss. A trickle of water ran out of the towel, down the side of his neck, and disappeared down his chest inside the fluffy white bath robe he'd chosen to don instead of getting dressed.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's sore."

"I'm sorry, love."

America snorted and gave him a knowing look. "No, you're not."

Crossing to him, and taking the wash cloth out of his hand, England tilted America's chin up and to the side to inspect the mark. The skin around it was red from the cold, but it did seem like the purple was slowly fading. There was something so erotic about the blood pooling there beneath the delicate skin, that England had to swallow hard to compose himself. "No, I'm not."

"Asshole," America murmured, but leaned into England's fingertips against his jaw and closed his eyes.

England dropped the washcloth into the ice bucket and wiped the wet from his hand on his trouser leg so that he could thread his fingers through the hair at the nape of America's neck, turning his head even more to the side. He leaned down and placed the lightest of kisses over the bruise, feeling the thick pulse thump against his lips. America groaned, either because the skin was so tender, or at the warmth of England's mouth. England nuzzled his nose against the underside of America's jaw before kissing him softly on the chin, cheeks, forehead and temples, slowly tilting his head back upright. He was pulling away, brushing a feather light trail over America's cheeks, when America blew a frustrated breath out of his nose, put a hand on the back of England's head, and pulled him down for a real kiss. England braced his palms on the arms of the chair, and smiled against America's hungry mouth. When they broke apart, America bumped his forehead against England's and cleared his throat.

"Hey, think you can stay just this once? Sneak out in the morning?"

"I thought you were angry with me."

"Yeah, well, I get turned on when I'm angry at you, so…."

"So, I should stay."

"Definitely."

England smiled and straightened up, picking up the wash cloth out of the ice bucket, wringing it out, and putting new ice cubes in it. "Very well. But I think we should still tend to your little mortal wound, there."

America scoffed and rolled his eyes, but held his arms open for England to come sit on his lap. England obliged and gingerly pressed the washcloth over the bruise, cold tendrils of water running down his shirt sleeve as America craned his neck and their lips met once more.


	30. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asking America to help with the gardening yields mixed results, and a waste of water. 
> 
> Warnings: WASTING WATER, Sexual innuendos/banter???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested "war" as a one word prompt, and I opted to go light rather than angsty.

As much as he grumbled about being up so early, England knew that America enjoyed the occasional morning spent gardening. It was unavoidable, in England's eyes. Part of it was that the work simply had to be done whether or not America was visiting, since England refused to let his prized plants wilt for the sake of an extra hour of cuddling. The other part was that it was simply practical to have America do all the heavy lifting that England loathed doing himself. A smaller part may have been that it was fun to watch America get sweaty and dirty and wet doing it, but England kept that reason mostly to himself.

Still, he couldn't feel too bad about his objectification when America seemed to relish in the work, getting excited over the insects he found, sampling the vegetables as they ripened, and generally enjoying rolling around in the dirt like an oversized child. England had tasked him with moving some bags of mulch and soil around in the shed before handing him a giant galvanized watering can. As he used the hose to spray the beds in front of him, he could hear the gentle splashing of the water, and America whistling to himself at the other end of the garden.

It was peaceful, and England was on the verge of getting lost in the soothing hiss of the spray nozzle when America's shadow fell against him. He looked over his shoulder and screwed the nozzle closed, letting the hose drop to the grass and smiling when he saw America was wearing one of England's wide-brimmed gardening hats. Little flecks of milky sunlight leaked through the straw brim and dotted America's face with a couple of faint, shimmering faux freckles. He still had the watering can in one hand, and in the other held the stem of a pale pink rose.

"All finished over there?" England stood, reaching to wipe away a mystery smudge on America's cheek.

"Yeah, all soaked. Here." America handed him the rose with a smile

England returned the smile as he sampled the flower's light scent. "That's a good look on you," he half-quipped, gesturing to the sun hat.

"I thought about taking my shirt off and fulfilling that sexy gardener fantasy I'm assuming you have," he said, stepping into England with a mischievous grin.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, but I figured you'd get all distracted and then blame me when your rutabagas or whatever died because you had to have me right here in the garden."

"Very considerate of you, thank you." England smirked and closed the gap between them, resting his hands on America's shoulders, the rose in his left hand brushing slightly against America's neck and making him shiver. America's free hand grabbed at England's hip and pulled him in even tighter.

"No problem. Wouldn't want you getting all hot and bothered when you're supposed to be working."

"And what if I'm getting all hot and bothered, as you put it, anyway?"

America smirked and bent down to brush his lips against England's ever so slightly. "Are you?"

"Mmmhmm," England hummed, returning the almost kiss.

"I think I can fix that." America then kissed England so thoroughly that England didn't even register that he was lifting up the water can until it was too late, and cold streams of water were cascading over his head and back.

With a jolt and a gasp, England shoved America off of him. America dropped the can and turned to flee with a raucous burst of giggles. England couldn't help the shocked laughter escaping him as he abandoned his flower and reached for the hose, spinning the nozzle setting to a strong stream.

"You brat, this is war!" he hollered as he aimed the full force of the water at America's back. The stream caught him right between the shoulder blades, and America jumped and dramatically feigned being shot down by the water. He remained playing dead on the grass as England closed in on him, changing the water setting to a gentler shower as he stood over America's already soaked form.

"Do you surrender?" He nudged America's side with his foot, and America rolled over, eyes closed beneath water splotched glasses, his head lolling to the side so that the hat finally fell off. England laughed again, but didn't let up on the hose, soaking America's t-shirt and jeans. "I said, do you surrender?"

The only warning England had was the brief smile that crossed America's lips, and then he felt himself being pulled down to the sopping grass, disoriented and helpless as America pinned him and stole the hose. Water flooded down England's chest and stomach, turning his sweater into a squishy, cold mess, but England found himself still laughing. America was laughing, too, cheeks red and hair dripping, the shoulders of his shirt almost see-through. He let the hose rest between their bodies as he lowered himself down to kiss England again, and England wrapped hims arms around his neck to keep him there until they were both shivering and breathless.

"Maybe we should call it a tie," America panted, fumbling to shut the hose nozzle off before flopping next to England in the grass.

"No chance. I was winning until you started playing dirty."

"I think we're both going to _be_ dirty after this," America giggled, slapping his hands against the muddy puddle beginning to form around them. "But I had you going there for a minute."

England rolled onto his stomach and pecked America on the lips. "If you really want to get me hot and bothered, you'll take me upstairs, strip me down, and have me in the shower. Sounds much nicer than gardener fantasies at the moment."

America bit his lip against a smile, and lifted his head for another quick kiss before standing on wobbly legs. "Deal," he said as he pulled England up, then bent down to retrieve the gardening hat and plop it on England's head.

England shivered and smiled to himself as America led him into the house with an arm around his shoulders. Gardening would seem so painfully boring when he was gone.


	31. Brother (Version 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred's going away to school, and Arthur's chance to let his feelings be known is slipping away. 
> 
> Human AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested "brother" as a one word prompt. This chapter and the next are two different versions, since I had two very different thoughts.

Arthur shivered, his back beginning to feel stiff against the hood and windshield of Alfred's car. He wished he had brought a jacket, and shivered again, crossing his arms over his chest. Stargazing was one of Alfred's favorite "hang out" ideas, and usually Arthur was more than game to lay next to him while he prattled on and on and about this bright spot, or this slightly bigger, slightly brighter bright spot, and what these six bright spots together meant. But tonight the air was chilled by a slight wind, and even worse, the knowledge that Alfred would be leaving for half way across the country the next morning.

A sudden plop of fabric against his chest startled him, having been so absorbed in his sulking that he hadn't noticed Alfred taking off his sweatshirt and tossing it over.

"You'll be cold," Arthur insisted, even as he clutched the sweatshirt and inhaled the heady scent of dirt, detergent, and sweat clinging to the material.

"Nah, I'm good. You're shaking so bad I can feel the windshield vibrate." Alfred turned his head to look at Arthur with a smile, and even though he knew it was a joke, Arthur turned away, feeling self-conscious.

"Sorry, thank you," he grunted, and spread the sweatshirt over his torso like a blanket.

"Mmhmm."

They were silent for a few minutes, Arthur listening to Alfred's steady breathing and snuggling further into the sweatshirt. He might have dozed off if Alfred hadn't suddenly pointed up.

"Okay, see that one, right there?"

"Wha— uh, which one? That one?" Arthur fumbled to get his arm out from beneath Alfred's sweatshirt and point, trying to line up his arm with Alfred's.

"No, the other one."

"There are a dozen "other ones" Alfred, I don't know—"

Alfred laughed and scooted closer, angling so that his cheek was almost against the top of Arthur's head. He grabbed Arthur's arm and guided it a couple of inches to the right. "That one."

Arthur willed himself to breathe normally, and concentrate on the star, but all he could think was how warm Alfred's hands felt, how with a simple turn of the head he could touch his lips against Alfred's. He faked another shiver to disengage his arm from Alfred's grip. "Alright, that one."

Alfred launched into another speech, but it was all lost on Arthur. A growing dread and ache was tightening his stomach, and he wished Alfred would scoot away, but he didn't. He kept talking about lightyears and astronomers and constellations as if he had no clue what the closeness was doing to Arthur, how it was killing him in the sweetest, slowest way. He didn't have a clue, actually, Arthur thought, and he exhaled bitterly.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asked, and Arthur turned his head to look up at him. The bottom of Alfred's glasses were fogging up from their combined breath, but Arthur couldn't force himself to look away.

"Nothing, I just— I love you."

Alfred smiled. "I love you, too, man! You're like a brother to me, Arthur." He sat up and took off his glasses, polishing the fog away on the hem of his shirt.

Arthur stared at his back, feeling hollow.

"And I know you're worried, but nothing is going to change when I leave for school. I'll be back every break I can, and you'll come visit, and it'll all be okay. Nothing will change, right?" Alfred looked over his shoulder at Arthur, his smile still big and genuine.

"Right," Arthur said quietly, hoping he didn't sound as miserable as he felt, and turned back to stare dispassionately at the stars. "Nothing will change. I know."


	32. Brother (Version 2)/Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the undead lurking, Arthur and Ivan come across a familiar looking survivor. 
> 
> Human AU, Zombie Apocalypse AU  
> Warnings: Profanity, Guns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second version of the "brother" prompt, combined with a different prompt for "apocalypse." 
> 
> This may become a thing. I don't know.

Arthur was sprinting in the direction of the scream, knife out and ready, before Ivan could even yell at him to stop.

He didn't know what he was expecting to find, but it certainly wasn't a young man flipped upside down against the trunk of a scrawny tree, shoulders still grazing the dirt, and foot caught in one of Ivan's snares. He was struggling to reach his ankle and pull his foot loose, but the snare had pulled it too high and his backpack was twisted and weighing him down. Arthur stared in shock for a moment, hearing Ivan come to a skittering halt in the dead leaves and dirt behind him, before he sprang to action.

"Be quiet," he hissed, crouching low a few feet from the struggling stranger. "You'll attract them. Are you bit?" The young man jolted and tried to flip around to face him, startled as if he hadn't heard Arthur and Ivan approach.

"Wha—? I—no, no, just help me!"

"Don't lie to me," Arthur said more sternly. "Are you bit?"

"No, man, I'm not fucking bit!

"Shhhh!"

Arthur heard Ivan cock his gun behind him, and glared over his shoulder. "Ivan, no."

"If he's not going to shut the fuck up, I'm putting him down."

The stranger whimpered and began struggling again. Arthur sighed and put a hand over his mouth, wrenching his head back into the dirt,. "Be quiet, now, or I'll let him do it, understand?" The stranger nodded emphatically against his hand. "Good. I'll cut you down, but I want weapons first. Any funny business and I'll leave you for the biters. Are we clear?" The stranger nodded again, his breathing returning to normal. Arthur removed his hand.

"All I have is the knife in my belt, but I couldn't get to it."

"You swear?'

"Swear, swear to god, that's it."

Arthur pushed the stranger over to the side to retrieve the knife and tossed it toward Ivan. He stood and took his own knife to the rope wrapped around the stranger's foot.

"At least we know my traps work," Ivan said with a smirk.

Arthur snorted. "Yes, well, I wish it had caught something better. We can't eat him."

"Says you," Ivan quipped before turning to survey the surrounding trees for movement.

"Get Liz on the radio and tell her we're coming back with company." Arthur slowly began lowering the stranger's legs to the ground, noting the labored breathing and pained expression on his face as Arthur brushed his ankle. "And tell Matt to have the first aid ready."

"For fuck's sake, not another stray, Arthur!" Ivan complained at the same time the stranger said, "Matt!? Did you say Matt?"

Ivan and Arthur stared down at the stranger for a moment, suddenly seeing the similarities.

"Fuck," Ivan whispered, rubbing his forehead.

"Did you say Matt? My brother he—we got separated—I'm Alfred, did he ever— did you say Matt?"

Arthur was silent for a moment, knowing this could complicate things, and looked to Ivan for approval. Ivan just shook his head and rolled his eyes wearily, waving a hand in dismissal of responsibility.

"Yes, we have a Matt back at—"

"How old? What does he look like? Is he okay? Is he—" The stranger tried to stand, but Arthur put a hand out to stop him.

"Slow down, and lower your voice," Arthur said, crouching to meet the stranger's eye. "You tell us what he looks like, and we'll tell you if it's him."

"Okay, okay, he's taller than me, a few inches anyway. Skinny. Blond, lighter than me, blue eyes. His hair is long, was long. He was wearing a blue shirt and, um, a uh, a kinda green-ish flannel last time I saw him, but we got separated, maybe ten miles from here? A month ago? Is that him? Is he okay? He was a med student, is it him?"

"Fuck," Ivan grunted again, and took the radio out.

"It sounds like him," Arthur said with a smile, but still uneasy. "He talks about you."

"Oh, thank god. Please, please let me go with you, I won't be trouble, I just have to see him, please."

Before Arthur could respond, Ivan was stomping over, brandishing the radio in Arthur's face. "We can't afford another mouth, Arthur. We're starving as it is. And he's hurt. He can't walk, he'll drag us down."

"What if it was your sister?"

"Arthur, we can't—"

"What if it was your sister, Ivan?" Arthur said pointedly, staring Ivan down.

"But it's fucking not!"

"Get on the radio and tell Liz we are coming back with Matt's brother. Now."

Ivan huffed angrily and started to walk away, the radio crackling to life in his hand. "Fine. But this is temporary."

"That's not your call," Arthur warned, and began to help Alfred up.

"Thank you, Arthur," Alfred said quietly, gritting his teeth as he tried to test his ankle.

"Don't thank me yet. If we run into biters on the way back, you're the first thing we drop." He meant it teasingly, but as they started hobbling after a fuming Ivan, Alfred nodded.

"I get it. But I wont be a burden. I can look after myself. And Matt."

"Obviously," Arthur chuckled, referring to the trap.

"That was a fluke," Alfred said, returning the chuckle. "But why biters? Why not just call them zombies?"

Arthur considered for a moment, trying to shift Alfred's arm over his shoulders to a more manageable position. "I've always thought of zombies as fiction. Whatever is walking around now just….isn't."

"Fair enough."

Ivan whirled around ten feet ahead of them. "If you two don't stop flirting and pick up the pace, I'm leaving you out here."

Arthur sighed through his nose, already anticipating the drama that would unfold back at camp. "C'mon. Let's get you to your brother."


	33. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America has a little too much fun sliding on the hardwood floors.

England had just finished pouring water into the coffee pot and flicking it on when he heard the thunder of feet tripping down the stairs. A brief silence followed, punctuated by a solid thunk, and England turned around to see America bracing himself in the doorway of the kitchen, smiling and panting. He was dressed only in boxers and a pair of long white athletic socks, and he swiveled his feet around on the hardwood floor to draw attention to them. England rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically before giving him a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

"I wish you wouldn't do that. You're going to hurt yourself one of these days."

"Good morning to you, too," America chirped sarcastically, and then pulled England back for a proper kiss on the lips. "And I'm not going to hurt myself. I've seen _Risky Business_ at least 50 times. I'm a pro!"

England disentangled himself with a laugh and went to lean against the counter, taking up his half cold mug of tea. "I don't see what's so fun about it anyway. You have wood floors in your home and I've never seen you sliding around there."

"Can't do it at home. Don't have a big straightaway like this one." America grinned and braced himself in the doorway again so he could skate his feet back and forth with exaggerated lunges. "Try it once. I guarantee you'll love it."

Snorting into his sip of tea, England shook his head. "I doubt that."

"Right, because you can't have fun."

"No, because I don't think it will _be_ fun."

"Okay, but how do you know if you haven't tried?"

England couldn't think of a retort, so settled for mimicking America's question in a high-pitched voice.

"Mature."

"About as mature as sliding around on my floors."

"Consider it polishing." America stopped skating in the doorway and walked over to press himself up against England, employing a saccharine pout and cocking his head to the right. "Try it once for me and if you hate it I'll never ever do it again."

"Oh really?"

"Swear."

"Fine. But I know I'll hate it, so you might want to get in one last good one."

"Not gonna be necessary," America sing-songed, and led England out into the hallway. "Okay, so what you'll want to do is—"

England scoffed and kicked off his slippers. "I think I know how to slide across a floor."

"Okay, hot-shot." America took a few running steps before sliding down the hall and stopping himself perfectly and turning around. "Let's see it."

With another sigh, England took an exaggerated ready stance and launched himself. He only slid a few paces before screeching to an ungainly halt, which elicited a disgusted snort from America.

"Boo, that was weak. You gotta get some speed going. Do it again."

"I hate you for making me do this," England grumbled as he backed up and readied himself once more.

"And I love you for doing it anyway."

They shared a soft look, which England couldn't help but ruin by rolling his eyes. He crouched a little and pushed off with more force, running a few more steps before shifting his feet sideways and letting momentum take over.

Flying over the hardwood effortlessly, England let out a little whoop of exhilaration and spread his arms to steady himself. It was a thrilling ride, and would have been a great success if he hadn't miscalculated the force it would take to stop himself. His arms swung wildly as he tried to shift his weight and slow down, but it was too late. With a soft thud, England crashed right into America, who barely had his arms up in time to catch him. England faltered and almost took America down with him, but in the next instant he found himself flipped over into a low, Hollywood style dip, looking up into America's smiling face.

"Nice moves."

"Nice save."

They both giggled, and America kissed him with the appropriate amount of cheesy passion. England enjoyed it more than he would have admitted, looping his arms around America's neck. They broke their kiss with another round of giggling, and America pulled England out of the dip with a swift motion.

Unfortunately, this did nothing but disorient England, who slipped and tumbled toward the floor, arms still locked tightly around America's neck. A loud smack and a blinding pain later, and England was flat on his back, America half hovering over, half squashing him.

"Ow," England groaned breathlessly as he registered the throbbing at the back of his head. America was sitting up slowly, hissing and cradling his left elbow. He blew on the splotchy red skin to chase a little of the sting away until England groaned again.

"Oh, shit. Sweetheart, are you okay? Did you smack your head?"

England forced himself to fight the bloom of pain and smile. "That or the floor attacked me." He tried to sit up despite the sudden spinning feeling he was having, but America stopped him.

"No, you just stay there for a minute and look at me." America cupped his face and examined him with a critical eye, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I don't have a concussion."

"You're not a doctor."

"Neither are you." England took a deep breath, and things seemed to steady. "But you are the floor sliding champion, I'll give you that."

America allowed a short laugh to escape, and then ducked his head sheepishly. "I guess you were right about getting hurt eventually. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault I'm clumsy." England nuzzled into America's hand. "And I never said I hated it, so technically you win."

"Yay me," America cheered with forced enthusiasm. "I am sorry, though." He leaned down and kissed England's forehead tenderly. "Okay, let's get you some ice for that bump and put you on couch arrest until I know you're not going to pass out on me."

"I'm fine, really," England said stiffly as he let America help him up. "But you will have to teach me proper floor sliding technique. I think you have me hooked."

"Nah, I'd rather have you in one piece."

England smiled and kissed America's cheek, wooziness already starting to fade. "And you say I don't know how to have any fun."


	34. Makeshift Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has places to be, and Alfred feels stuck where he is. 
> 
> Human AU   
> Warnings: Profanity, Nudity, Sexual Content

The air slid down Alfred's lungs like syrup as he laid staring up at the ceiling.

Three small spots where the paint was beginning to flake off.

A dingy glass orb covering the lightbulb.

The faint shadow of a cobweb.

Alfred took his glasses off so he could wipe his damp face. His skin felt burnt and itchy, like he had laid out in the sun too long. The heat was bearing down, and he let the breath he had been holding ooze out of him.

He could still taste Arthur. His tongue felt fat and dry and awful in his mouth, but that rich, private taste lingered. And the smell. Equal parts sweat, sex, and detergent, it was comforting and arousing all at once. A little gross. Alfred's cock twitched, but no other part of his body was up to the task. There would be other times, he assumed.

A fly buzzed and pinged against the window pane, slowly braining itself to death trying to escape the melting bedroom. The only other sounds were the faint mechanical ticking of the alarm clock on the bedside table, and the rasp of a match as Arthur lit a cigarette.

Alfred was dying to move. The wet spot beneath him was getting more uncomfortable by the second, and yet he couldn't make himself sit up and peel the sheets off. Not yet. He watched as two thin puffs of smoke wafted toward the ceiling. A third. A fourth. The fly stopped buzzing.

Arthur cleared his throat abruptly, and Alfred would have jumped if his body was working. "I don't want this any more," Arthur said, holding the cigarette out to Alfred without looking at him.

"It's not my brand."

"I'm finished with it."

"It's not… yeah, fine. Give it."

Alfred took the cigarette, but ignored the ash tray, flicking the ash away over the carpet.

"You'll start a fire."

"Mmm."

"Your landlord will be thrilled."

"Pffft, fuck that guy."

Arthur chuckled and turned on his side to face Alfred, hands tucked under the side of his face. "You know, you should really talk to him. See if he'll let you paint this place."

"Paint? Are you serious?" Alfred let the cigarette dangle from his lips as he put his glasses on again. He sat up despite the ache and twinge in his back, fluffing up the soggy pillows so his skin wouldn't stick to the headboard.

"Yes! Why not? It would make it feel more like home, and not just temporary living."

Alfred looked down at Arthur and raised an eyebrow. He gestured around the dim, bland, little room. "It is just temporary living. I don't wanna be stuck here forever."

"No, of course not, I just meant that it would cheer things up a bit." Arthur rolled on to his stomach and wiggled toward Alfred's lap, keeping himself propped up on his elbows. "You could have people over and—"

"What people?"

"Your friends. People, girls—"

Alfred choked on his last stream of smoke and tossed the cigarette butt in an empty water glass on his night stand. "Yeah, okay. Look I don't want to put in the effort for something that isn't forever. It just seems pointless." He sat up straighter, and looked around the room again, a hand absent—mindedly rubbing Arthur's shoulder. "Someday I'll move out and have a real house and I can paint that whatever crazy colors I want, but for now? I'd just have to put it back the way it was anyway."

Arthur pursed his lips and looked down, fiddling with the lumpy wad of sheets draped low across Alfred's belly. It tickled, so Alfred took his hands and held them in one of his own. They were sticky and warm except for the thin band of silver around his one finger. That was hot.

"You don't think you can enjoy it even though it's temporary? That's sad," Arthur said, finally, and laid his head on Alfred's thigh.

Alfred exhaled heavily through his nose. "Are we still talking about paint?"

"Don't."

"I know, I'm sorry." Alfred ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, tenderly working through the sweaty snarls that had built up from rubbing against the pillows.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Arthur's steady breathing was thick and humid even through the sheet covering Alfred's thighs, and for a moment he thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. But Arthur cleared his throat and propped himself up on his elbows again, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands until his eyelids and cheeks turned red.

"What time is it?"

"Three."

The fly started buzzing against the window again as Arthur rolled over, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, bare back and ass still slick, decorated with fading indentations from the crumpled sheets. He was pink and raw looking, and tired. Old, which he would hate if Alfred were to crack a joke about it. He was tempted, but didn't.

Wordlessly, Arthur bent to retrieve his clothes, turning around to spread it on the bed. Alfred stared at the freckled skin of his shoulders, the red scratch marks on his belly, his soft cock, and kept staring until it was all sloppily hidden beneath a respectable, if wrinkled, disguise.

"You have somewhere to be?"

Arthur didn't spare him a look as he dedicated his attention to patting his pockets and pretending to be missing things just so he could search for them. "I have to pick up Peter."

Alfred's stomach hurt. He crossed his arms over his chest, but it felt so unnatural that he immediately uncrossed them and left them to smack heavily back against the mattress. Logically he had known that that was what the answer would be. For some reason it bothered him today.

"I'm sorry. You asked."

"I know. It's okay." Alfred kicked the sheets off his legs, sending them flying to the floor in a damp wad. He stood shakily and pulled on a t-shirt and boxers. "Geez, you couldn't have just lied to me?," he said, forcing a smile.

Arthur looked at him finally. He was either very sad or very tired or very both. Not at all handsome that way, Alfred decided. "I don't want to do that. Not with you."

"It was joke, Arthur. Jesus."

A breath shuddered out of Arthur, somewhere between a sigh and a humorless laugh. "I'll call you."

Arthur started for the bedroom door, and Alfred could feel the pain in his gut flaring up again. He should just let him go, knowing he'd be back again soon, but in the moment it was all feeling like the end of something, and his instinct was to be mean about it. Childish. He hated when Arthur called him that, but sometimes he was and he deserved it.

"Yeah, and I'll just sit around waiting to fuck you."

Arthur stopped, hand on the door, and turned around slowly. His lips were tight and withered, eyes hard and maybe starting to fill with tears. That would be typical, Alfred thought, and the pain in his belly turned into a knotted shame. Arthur stared at him for a long moment. Alfred's skin crawled and burned.

"You know, believe it or not, the fucking is not what I like best about you, Alfred. God help me, but it's not."

Alfred swallowed hard, a new type of itchiness coating his throat. He smiled, or at least twitched his mouth, and held his arms out.

"I love you, too. C'mere."

Arthur came to him like a magnet, drawn in and stuck. His sweater was scratchy against Alfred's forearms, but he didn't mind too much, holding tight and lowering his face to the crook of Arthur's neck. One of Arthur's hands found the back of his head and cradled him there. Somehow they managed to break apart enough to find one another's lips, and Alfred smiled at the sensation of Arthur's hot exhale against his mouth.

"I really do have to go," Arthur said, quiet and hoarse. He ran his hands over the tops of Alfred's shoulders and down his chest. Alfred took his hands and pulled him closer one last time.

"Yeah. It's okay." They kissed again and parted, and this time Alfred let him get as far as opening the door before he stopped Arthur.

"Hey, so what color were you thinking? For the paint."

Arthur beamed at him, cheeks pink and damp. He still looked tired and sad and old, but Alfred's heart skipped a beat anyway.

"Yellow in the front room, definitely. Those windows? Perfect."

"And in here?"

"Blue. Something soft. Romantic."

Alfred looked around the room, stifling in its overload of beige and heat, and tried to imagine the walls bathed in blue. He tried to imagine new sheets, clean and soft and full of Arthur. He couldn't, really.

"That sounds nice."

"It does, doesn't it?"


	35. Two Tails Are Better Than One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred has some issues with impulse control. Add a pet store to the equation and things get hairy. 
> 
> Someone come smack me for the bad pun 
> 
> Human AU  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request from a quote prompt meme on tumblr. Prompt: "Have you lost your damn mind!?"

"Have you lost your damn _mind_!?"

Arthur felt as if his eyeballs were going to fall right out of his sockets and on to the floor. Which would probably only result in them being batted at by one of the two— _two!_ — cats now sitting in the living room. Well, one was sitting (and smugly at that) on the coffee table, and the other was hiding under Arthur's armchair. The point was that there were two of them when there had been none of them that morning, and none of the blinking Arthur was doing was making them disappear.

"I know, I _know_! But hear me out okay, they're both totally house trained and fixed and up to date on their shots and everything and they're really—"

"Alfred, where the devil did you get _cats_ from?"

Alfred slumped on the sofa, offering a hand to the plump grey and white cat on the table, and smiling when it immediately craned its neck to bump its head against him. It was almost cute, Arthur thought. Almost.

"Well, I was at the gym and there's that pet store across the street, right? So I see all these cages and pens, and they have balloons and stuff and these tables and a bunch of people, so I go over to see what's happening." Alfred stopped, distracted by the cat standing on it's back legs and surveying the room intensely like some sort of hairy, obese kangaroo-gopher hybrid. He slowly reached out and gently tickled the shaggy belly fur, which prompted an offended mewl and some playful batting.

"And?" Arthur crossed his arms, and forced a scowl. Some horrid force was trying to push his cheeks up into a smile, but he fought against it and glared at the cat.

"So they were having this adoption drive for the shelter and there were so many dogs and cats and rabbits and everything, and I swear I was just looking, I didn't plan on getting anything."

"Neither did I," Arthur mumbled.

"But I saw these two and I couldn't help it! You've been saying you want a cat forever and I just thought—"

"Yes, _a_ cat. _Eventually_. And I thought I might be at least somewhat involved in the process."

Alfred looked up at him with a worried pout. "You're not really mad at me, are you?"

He managed to maintain his glaring for only a second more, and then Arthur sighed heavily and uncrossed his arms. He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. His pursed lips quirked and melted into a half-smile.

"No. I'm not. I'm just shocked, is all."

"I mean, they needed a home."

"I know." Arthur sat on the arm of the sofa, draping his arm across Alfred's shoulders. "You're sweet. And they are cute. At least this one is. And what I can see of the other. Do they have names?"

Alfred scooted over on the sofa so Arthur could sit, making a kissing noise to the grey cat, who immediately jumped to sit between them. The cat placed its front paws on Alfred's chest and nuzzled its head under Alfred's chin, purring. A real smile lit up Arthur's face, and he gently stroked the cat's back and giant, fluffy tail.

"Well, you're not going to believe this, but this guy's name is Burger."

"You're kidding."

"I'm really not," Alfred laughed, taking the cat in his arms as his demands for affection became more aggressive. "I can show you the paperwork."

"And what about the other one."

"That's his cage mate. They didn't want them to be separated. His name is Marmalade."

"Seems like someone thought the food theme was clever."

Alfred snorted. "Yeah, I guess. Marmalade's a little shy, they said, but he's really affectionate once he warms up."

"That one's already plenty warm," Arthur said, nodding toward Burger, who was allowing Alfred to hold him like a baby, eyes narrowing with a content sleepiness.

"I know, he's my buddy," Alfred cooed, making more kissing noises to the cat before outright smooching him on the forehead.

Rolling his eyes at the display, Arthur turned his attention to the little blob of patchy white and orange smushed beneath the armchair. He held his hands out and rubbed his fingers together, as if that was somehow enticing to a terrified cat, and clicked his tongue. A tiny meow floated out from under the chair, and Arthur smiled.

"Come on, Marmalade. It's alright. You can come out. You can do it."

The cat rustled under the chair for a few more seconds before slowly peeking his head out and sniffing at Arthur. He narrowed his eyes and scrunched up his nose, and Arthur thought he would duck back under the chair and not be heard from for the rest of the day. But Marmalade gingerly creeped out from under the chair, crouched warily and low to the ground. Arthur didn't dare move. The cat made it to Arthur's hand, smelling it thoroughly before giving it the tiniest little lick. Arthur could have melted at the sight of the sweet little face and funny folded ears, and wanted nothing more than to scoop the cat up and cuddle him. But he stayed frozen until Marmalade relaxed, straightened from his crouch, and climbed right up into Arthur's lap. He circled around once before sitting primly, tail and front paws tucked into a perfect little loaf.

"Oh my god, you're like the cat whisperer," Alfred said in a hushed voice.

Arthur beamed and tentatively stroked Marmalade, heart skipping a beat as the cat began to purr.

"Well, you have your buddy, and it seems I have mine."


	36. Shhh!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred's interest in the library is not purely academic. 
> 
> Human AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usukiseverything on tumblr requested "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice" for USUK from the quote fic prompt meme.

Alfred's heart began to beat harder the moment he heard the familiar squealing of the book cart. It was so quiet and empty up here on the fifth floor that he could hear every stop the cart made, and the shuffling sounds of crinkling plastic book covers, and the gentle whoosh and thump as the books where slid back into place by expert hands. He could hear the scratching of a pen on a clipboard, and the faintest trace of light, tuneless humming as the library shelver rolled his cart another row closer.

He wasn't stalking the dude, absolutely not. That would be gross and ridiculous, and Alfred wasn't that type of guy. He was only even up here because of an accident, a coincidence. Sometimes it rained, and sometimes you needed to take cover, and sometimes the only outlet not being used in the entire university library was up on the fifth floor. And sometimes you happened to see a really cute guy working up there, he rationalized to himself. It was just an accident. The first time anyway. Every time after that might have been a choice.

The cart rolled closer and the shelver paused to deposit a few books down another row. Alfred ducked his head down and stared at his laptop screen, but couldn't resist testing his peripheral vision to catch a glimpse of the guy. He couldn't explain it. He was cute, but not anything to write home about, really. Blonde shaggy hair a permanent mess, face always pinched into a funny expression, like he was concentrating super hard on not laughing at a dirty joke while also trying to read the world's tiniest print. He dressed like somebody's grandpa, and not in the trendy hipster way. The actual geriatric way. But there was still something so weirdly charming about the odd little shelver that Alfred felt the back of his neck burning even when he was still five rows away.

The shelver finished his row, and Alfred snuck a peak at the cart. It was empty. That meant that he'd turn around and go back to the front of the floor. Alfred was just letting disappointment sink in when suddenly the shelver abandoned his cart and walked right over to the table where Alfred was sitting.

"Are you finished with those?"

"Huh?" was all the charm Alfred could muster. Whatever he'd imagined in his head, it wasn't that accent or that tone, and yet somehow the real thing was better.

The shelver blinked at him rapidly, shaking his head slightly as if Alfred was being unbelievably stupid, and rested his hand on a small pile of books on the table. "Are you finished with these books? I'll put them back."

Alfred's brain glitched for a split second. He looked at the books. They weren't his, and he didn't remember them being there when he'd sat down, but he cleared his throat and stuttered out, "Oh, um, I'll put them away."

His voice sounded too loud in the hush of the library, but if the shelver was bothered, he didn't show it. He just twitched his mouth into what might have been a smile and said, "No, that's sort of my job. No offense, but it will be faster for me to do it than for you to try."

Alfred felt his face get red, but he realized that the shelver was maybe teasing and not lecturing him. He managed a smile of his own and nodded.

"Good. I'll just get these out of your way, then." The shelver picked up the stack of books and looked at their spines. Alfred watched in horror as he quirked an eyebrow at the titles and gave Alfred an unreadable glance before smirking to himself and walking down a row three away.

Alfred cursed himself for not thinking to say the apparently embarrassing books weren't his, and was just about to shove his laptop into his bag and make a run for it when he heard the shelver clear his throat with deliberate loudness from somewhere inside the maze of books.

"I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice. Just so you know."

His stomach was somewhere in the vicinity of the second floor, Alfred could feel it. If he'd thought he'd been blushing before, he was practically on fire now.

"Are you still there? It's alright, I'm not mad. I just thought it was time I said something."

"I'm sorry," Alfred finally spluttered out. "I won't come up here again."

The shelver peaked his head out from a row five down, a warning finger on his lips, and Alfred was surprised to see his face was red, too.

"No, you don't understand. It's fine. I don't mind, I'm not angry, I'm— well, I just wanted to say that you're allowed to talk to me. If you want." He disappeared into the shelves again.

Alfred stood up, stomach sling-shotting back into place with dizzying hope. "Really?"

The shelver laughed so lightly that Alfred could barely hear it over the sound of another book being shoved into place. "I know, talking in a library? How scandalous. But no one will catch us up here— I mean, no one will hear us. If we're quiet, but…I've been waiting for you to talk to me, honestly."

"Why?" Alfred started down the patch between the rows, pushing chairs out of his way as dodged the desks lined up in the walkway and looked up and down the rows of shelves.

"Shouldn't I be asking you why you've been staring?"

"I haven't been staring," Alfred said defensively and a hair too loudly, catching himself and forcing his volume back down. "Okay, maybe a little. But I think you know why."

It was quiet for a moment as Alfred continued to search the rows, puzzled that he hadn't found the shelver yet.

"I'm not sure I do," the shelver finally said, barely above a whisper. "Sorry, I'm really not very good at this kind of thing."

Alfred couldn't tell where he was, but he was at the end of the walkway, so he doubled back to continue his search.

"I don't know, you seem pretty bold to me. What's your name?" Alfred called, and was immediately shushed. "Sorry," he mock whispered, and smiled when he heard the shelver chuckle.

A rustle of plastic caught Alfred's ear and he started toward the source, an increasing excitement pumping a bubbly sensation through his veins.

"Arthur. What's yours? You seem much more accustomed to this than I am."

"Arthur? I'm Alfred," he said, smiling as he turned the corner and saw Arthur sliding the final book into place. "And accustomed to what?"

Jumping and clutching at his chest in surprise, Arthur turned to him. He smiled briefly, before crossing his arms and adopting a serious expression. "Flirting."

Alfred mimicked his pose, feeling pretty bold himself. "Is that what we're doing?"

It seemed like Arthur faltered for a moment, quirking his mouth into an almost-gape, but he pressed his lips together and shrugged. "If we were, wouldn't you be asking me out right about now?"

They continued their solemn stare-down for another few breaths, and Alfred felt like he was on the verge of bursting. Arthur finally cracked a smile, and it bloomed over is face with such an adorable honesty that Alfred was disappointed when he looked at the ground and hid it from view.

"I really should ask you out. To thank you."

"For?" Arthur looked up at him brows knit together.

"I think I might actually pass World Religions, thanks to you. I've spent more time in the library this semester than I have in the past three years. And frankly, if you're not around, there's nothing better to do than study." They both laughed, Arthur covering his mouth to keep the sound in, and Alfred not caring who heard. Alfred leaned against the book shelf, crossing one foot over the other and shoving his hands in his pockets. "So if I were to ask you out, where would you want to go?"

Arthur leaned against the shelf, too, and studied Alfred's face for a moment, eyes narrowing and lips pursed. The honest smile reappeared, this time with a hint of a secret.

"Somewhere loud."


	37. The Play's The Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is excited to be rehearsing a new show. Alfred isn't so sure he wants to hear about it. 
> 
> Human AU  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owynsama on tumblr requested "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" for USUK from a quote fic prompt meme.

"You didn't have to wait up for me."

Alfred snorted awake, eyelids stiff and itchy feeling. He could hear Arthur flipping on the lights more than he could see the light itself, and he carefully swung his legs off the couch until he was in the semblance of an upright position.

"Technically I don't think I did."

He heard Arthur's short burst of a laugh and the creak of the kitchen cupboard hinges.

"Well, go to bed. I'm just having some tea and then I'll be right in."

"Nah, I'll wait. Make me some, too," Alfred said around a yawn as he finally got off the couch and crossed up to the tiny dining table. "How were rehearsals?"

Arthur arched an eyebrow at him, but took another mug out of the cupboard anyway. "It was fantastic, actually. I think we're making great progress."

He launched into a recap of the rehearsal, hands waving around to drive home this moment or that. Alfred didn't know half of the names or why half of the things he said were supposed to be amusing, but it didn't matter. There was an adorable giddiness to Arthur when he talked about this stuff, Alfred noticed. It was a passion and excitement that he so rarely showed anyone that Alfred was content to watch him talk a mile a minute and smile to himself. Sometimes Alfred felt a little excluded, that he didn't really understand anything about Arthur's life as an actor. There were so many traditions and terminologies and obligations that he couldn't remember or make sense of, but when Arthur talked so freely about his day, Alfred felt like he was maybe a little closer to sharing in it. He loved that the person he loved loved something so much.

Alfred was blissfully tuning out to enjoy just watching Arthur, but a name caught his ear.

"Ella is really a remarkable actress. I've never seen anyone so grounded and vulnerable at the same time. I think she could really make a go of it."

"Yeah?" Alfred looked down at the table and ran his fingertips over the scratches and dents in the lacquered surface.

"Oh, absolutely. She's just electric." The tea kettle whistled, and Alfred jumped and tried to mask his sudden sulking while Arthur poured water into the mugs and prepared his tea.

"She has these big green eyes, it's like she reflects everything back at you, it's incredible." He finished with his own drink and moved on to Alfred's, dumping in 2 heaping spoonfuls of sugar, exactly how he liked it, before bringing the mugs to the table and sitting. "We all love working with her. She's just perfect for the role, and so kind and gracious. I know the audiences are going to love her."

Alfred immediately took a mouthful of tea, letting it burn his lips and tongue before swallowing harshly. It tasted good, but Arthur hadn't stirred it well— being as caught up in fawning over his co-worker as he was— and it still felt gritty. Across the table, Arthur was cheerfully sipping and smiling to himself, as if there was some private joke he was recalling that he knew Alfred wouldn't understand. He was probably wasn't. He was probably just happy, and Alfred knew it, but something drove him to mutter under his breath anyway.

"Sounds like you already do."

Arthur's sipping faltered, and he ducked his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, setting his mug down a little too deliberately. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Alfred shrugged and pushed the tea away, scooting his chair back from the table so he could slouch. Maybe if he imitated the posture of someone not caring, he really would not care. "It just sounds like you guys have good chemistry, is all."

Arthur's brows knit together and he frowned. "We do. That's not always a given. It's nice to work with someone I don't want to strangle." There was teasing innuendo in that, the memory of one or several co-stars with less than sterling manners.

Alfred knew exactly who he was talking about and that didn't make him feel any better. He could more or less— okay, less at the moment— take Arthur being googly-eyed for some ingenue, but it was the other dudes that hit on him that maybe, sorta, kinda started to grind Alfred's gears. Whether or not he had anything to worry about in that department, and he didn't, Alfred couldn't help that heavy, hot feeling in his stomach. And he couldn't help the loaded question that popped out of his mouth.

"Is she a good kisser?"

"What?"

"You made me read the play, remember? I know what happens."

"Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" Arthur's eyes were wide with shock, but his mouth was wide with a half smile.

That made it worse. It was one thing for Arthur to call him out for being petty. It was another for him to laugh at him for it. Even if it was a little ridiculous. A lot ridiculous.

Alfred could feel his face and the back of his neck starting to burn, and he crossed his arms with a shrug. "No."

Smiling full-out now, Arthur smacked his hands on the table before crossing his own arms and leaning back in his seat victoriously. "You are! You're jealous! Oh, honestly Alfred—"

"Honestly, nothing. I'm not! I'm not jealous, okay? I mean, it's obvious you have a little crush on her or whatever because you can't stop talking about her—"

"Oh, I do not."

"— and I guess that's a good thing because you guys have chemistry, so maybe the play will be really good. and—"

"You are _so_ jealous."

"—I mean yeah it's, like, weird or whatever, but me? I'm cool. It's cool. I'm happy for you."

Alfred forced himself to stop babbling by picking up his mug and chugging the rest of his still too hot tea, wishing it was something that would cool him down instead. He smacked his lips a little too loudly to be convincingly casual, and could only meet Arthur's mischievous gaze for so long before he opted to pretend to be concerned with the contents of the bottom of his mug.

"Well, I think it's sweet you're a little jealous. But you know you have nothing to worry about."

"Who's worried?" His attempt at sounding unconcerned was somewhat ruined by the crack in his voice.

Arthur chuckled, but caught himself and leaned forward to spread his palms on the table, the picture of consoling gentleness "And you should know that I as much as I love what I do, I miss getting to see you when you come home."

"It's cool. It's kinda nice having the place to myself. And it'll be nice to have the extra money. They are paying you for this one, right?"

If Arthur's deadpan look could kill, Alfred would have been a goner several times over. He couldn't help grinning, a little of his defensive embarrassment diffused, and after a quick, narrowed glare, Arthur was grinning, too.

" _Yes_ , they are paying me. And don't think for a second that I don't appreciate everything you do to make it possible for me to do any of this in the first place. And just think." He stood and slowly circled the table, fingertips dragging across the surface, until he was standing next to Alfred. With a dainty sigh, he eased himself onto Alfred's lap, looping his arms around his neck and bringing his voice down to a dreamy whisper. "On opening night you can wait by the stage door for me with a giant bouquet of roses and I'll come out and give you a kiss that will make Ella turn green and everyone will know who I'm really going home with. Chemistry or not."

"God, you're so full of yourself." Alfred laughed, and craned his neck to catch Arthur's mouth in a kiss that would have deserved a standing ovation if anyone had been watching. Arthur's hands trailed down to brush the sides of Alfred's neck, and then up to his jaw to cup his face just as Alfred's hands wandered up the back of Arthur's shirt to brush against the warm, ticklish skin there. Breath hitching with a suppressed laugh, Arthur pulled back and touched his forehead to Alfred's.

"So. Are we all better now, or do I need to do some more convincing?" He walked two fingers down the center of Alfred's shirt, stopping mid-chest.

Alfred loved him. And he knew Arthur loved him right back. That's what actually mattered. Roles would come and go, and so would stage kisses and love scenes, but Alfred smiled, knowing that some things didn't change no matter how _maybe_ jealous he got. He circled his arms around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer.

"How about a little preview performance just for me?"


	38. This Too Shall Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and England have an awful day following several awful days and their relationship may not survive it. 
> 
> Canonverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested "We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?" from a quote fic prompt meme.

The air inside the taxi was hot and sticky despite the freezing rain slapping against the windows. England watched as two particularly fat raindrops raced down the glass only to get obliterated by a fresh wave of wind and water. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the seat, watching as his huffing breath clouded a few inches of the window. The only sounds were the smacking rainfall, the faintest hum of the taxi, and America drumming his fingertips on the door handle.

England huffed again, twisting in his seat and fighting with the damp, clinging bulk of his clothing. The combination of wet and warm made his skin prickle and itch. He wanted nothing more than to get back to America's place, change, and forget everything about the last three days. It didn't seem like that would be happening any time soon, and the last of England's intact nerves began to fray. It was too hot, too cramped, too slow, and America's drumming was too loud.

"Stop that," he snapped, glaring at America.

"What?"

"Tapping. You're being irritating."

America opened his mouth like he was going to retort, but then gave up with a shake of his head, narrowing his eyes at England before turning away and leaning his forehead against his own window. It was quiet for a few moments as England stared down at his lap and pulled his arms around himself even tighter. A sudden clap of thunder banged overhead and he felt America flinch next to him, inhaling sharply. He ignored the urge to reach out and put a comforting hand on his knee like he might normally, instead rolling his eyes for the benefit of nothing but his pretend lack of concern.

"Y'know what?" America said suddenly.

"What?"

He didn't respond right away. A shuddering exhale escaped him, a sound that might have been a laugh if he hadn't followed it up with, "Never mind."

The rain seemed to be lessening, but the thunder continued. England's head was beginning to ache, pain throbbing with the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding dully in his ears. Why had everything turned out so poorly? Of course, they fought from time to time. All couples did. But there had never been such horrible distance between them, not even with a literal ocean separating them. Nothing of note had happened, no comment or incident to set off the passive aggressive sulking and surliness. Perhaps it was because England had been so tired after his plane had landed, and that had set the tone for things. Or perhaps it was because America had been called in the next day, leaving England to his own devices on what was supposed to be the start of a much deserved vacation. Or perhaps it was the disappointing take out food or the even more disappointing sex or the fact that neither of them seemed to want to admit that things felt off and they needed to reset. Perhaps it was just that they'd forgotten what occupying the same space was actually like, and the reality of it wasn't as romantic as the filter distance tended to put on things. Or perhaps things had run their course.

That thought had been running around England's mind for the last six hours and he'd resolutely ignored it. But now the full force of that idea came crashing down like so much rain and thunder on their little taxi that his eyes welled up. A cold, heavy sickness began to eat at his stomach. He pressed a hand over his mouth as he swallowed down the sob clawing it's way up, rubbing his face with both hands to play it off when he realized the driver could see him in the rearview mirror. England's angry resolve was disintegrating and he was working himself up to say something, grab America's hand, do anything, when America cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Hey, just drop me at the park."

England could only stare at him in confusion as he shifted in his seat, pulling out his wallet and fluffing up the collar of his jacket.

"Are you sure? It's nasty out there," the driver asked, eyes darting between America and England in the rearview mirror.

"Positive."

More thunder rolled as the taxi pulled up to the curb and America gave the driver a thick handful of bills. "Take him the rest of the way. Keep the change."

He was out of the taxi and trudging through the rain before England could even protest. The driver looked questioningly at England in the mirror, and for a moment England genuinely debated telling him to drive on. Instead he shook his head and muttered a quick sorry before dashing out into the rain after America.

England slid and nearly fell on the slick lawn as he jogged along, arms held uselessly over his head as the rain soaked his hair and clothes. America didn't even acknowledge him as he caught up, falling in stride with America's brisk, angry pace.

"Stop! What the devil are you doing?"

"Don't worry about. I just need some fresh air."

"You're not likely to find it out here."

"I need to clear my head, okay?"

"We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain? Stop this before you get sick."

"Look, why don't you just go home? Leave me alone."

"Your home or mine?" England stepped in front of America abruptly, and they nearly collided. America looked down at him, the anger in his face softening to something that might have been hurt, but it was hard to tell behind the splattered raindrops covering his glasses.

"England—"

"I will go, if you want me to. But you can't run away from an argument."

America looked at him incredulously, pushing his way around him to continue stomping across the muddy grass. "What about you? You've been avoiding it! All day today you couldn't even stand being next to me, but now we have to talk about this just because you want to?"

"You're right. I'm sorry." England didn't follow him, the sick, cold feeling in his stomach from before cementing him to the wet ground.

America stopped a few yards away, fists clenched at his sides. He looked up at the sky, the last of the rain still dripping from the clouds, and took off his glasses and put them in his pocket so he could wipe his face with a sad sigh. "Why are you mad at me? I don't get it. I've been trying to figure out all day what I did wrong, and I can't. So just tell me, okay, because I hate this."

The sickness in his stomach sunk even further as he realized how much he'd been hurting America by wallowing in his own nonsensical hurt. He wanted to explain it away, spill all of the jumbled thoughts that had been devouring him, but all he could manage was a quiet, "I'm not mad at you."

"Are you sure?" America turned around, and his eyes looked puffy, rain flattening his hair and making it stick to his temples. "Because it kinda feels like I'm mad at you, and I don't have a reason to be and I hate that, too."

"I'm not, I wasn't, I—" England covered his face with his hands and then slicked them back through his hair. "I don't know. I don't know what happened. I think… I think we just forgot what it was like to be together and made a mess of it."

America just stared at him, and England could feel his eyes welling up again. There would be no graceful exit, no reasonable way to end things. The superficial cold of the rain was nothing compared to the chill England felt as he realized he was going to be be dumped on the third day of his vacation in a park in the middle of a thunderstorm. The melodrama of it all would have been funny if it hadn't been America, if England hadn't loved as much as he did.

After several endless moments, America closed the gap between them, pulling England into a tight, wet hug. "Well then we're going to have to figure out a way to see each other more often because this can't happen again."

England's shocked exhale came out as the sob he'd been fighting back, and he held onto fistfuls of America's jacket with a desperation he was no longer embarrassed to feel. Even with the rain and thunder and the clammy press of America's cheek against his neck, this was what England had been missing, the overwhelming rightness of being close to America. He shut his eyes and held on tight, whispering, "Thank god."

"What?" America broke the hug, but didn't step away.

Wiping his eyes, and shamelessly rubbing his nose on his sleeve, England took a deep, calming breath. "No, I— well, I was expecting you to break up with me."

Now America looked like he might cry, and he brushed some of the damp hair sticking to England's forehead aside with a tenderness that made England's stomach clench. "It's hard but I don't think it's too hard. Do you?"

"No." England shook his head and smiled. It was weak and flickering, but it was genuine.

America smiled back and arranged more of England's hair. He seemed to be at a loss for what else could say, but settled on exactly what England needed to hear. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

It didn't matter who initiated. All that mattered is that they were kissing and it felt like England's heart would burst. His hands found his way into America's hair and he pulled him closer, trying to soak up every last bit of this feeling to fortify him against future doubts. And there would be doubts, many of them, and arguments, too. But there would also be a million kisses, and laughter, and staggering amounts of love. There would always be love.

America pulled away first, but only to laugh and sniffle and bump his forehead against England's before kissing him one last time. "C'mon, I'll try to get another cab."

The storm was dying out, and England didn't care that his coat and shoes were soaked. It was less than ten blocks, and as England took America's hand in his and felt the comforting, familiar warmth, it didn't seem long enough.

"No. Let's walk."


	39. Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of chapter 32, the zombie apocalypse AU. 
> 
> Gelatokitty on tumblr chose the following from a fic prompt meme: "We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we're just waking up and there's something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AU exactly 3 people asked for lol. I have more of this AU planned out than I want to talk about and I don't have any real intention at this moment of writing it as a complete story, so probably every now and then some little ficlet will take place in this story line. And we'll all suffer and you'll all have to forgive me. Okay? Okay.

Alfred woke with a start, the same brief terror ripping a hole in his chest like it did every time his eyes fluttered and tipped him into consciousness. He'd thought he'd be over it by now, that danger would be boring somehow, or at least predictable. But he still felt invisible nightmares pulling at him, heard the shuddering groans, seconds away from tearing into him. It felt especially real after last night. Alfred forced himself to take a deep breath, and laid back down on the battered air mattress.

Next to him, curled under Alfred's jacket, Arthur sighed and wrinkled his nose. Alfred carefully turned on his side to face him. It was just barely dark in the church hall, a few long, grey rectangles of light starting to slide over the tops of the boards on the windows. Alfred could vaguely make out Peter wrapped in his sleeping bag on the couch, and what might have been Katya or Matt on an equally beat up mattress a half dozen yards away. It was quiet, except for the occasional soft snore floating up from somewhere farther down the hall and Arthur's quiet breathing.

Arthur's face was pale except for the ugly trio of cuts down his left cheek. They'd cleaned them thoroughly, but Arthur hadn't wanted to waste a bandage on them. Alfred wondered if they would scar. It wouldn't matter aesthetically any more, but Arthur wouldn't want the reminder. None of them would. Arthur sighed again, his chapped lips parting and staying open. Alfred stared at them for several cycles of Arthur's untroubled breathing, then forced himself to focus elsewhere. Arthur's hair was a ratty mess. His eyes were puffy and bruised looking. Alfred's observations were tugging at his stomach, too sad to want to cycle through the rest of the injured features. All that was left to take in were the cuts again, and then Alfred was back at square one, staring at his mouth. Alfred tried to shake his thoughts loose and start over.

Even asleep, Arthur looked exhausted. Alfred had never felt so relieved as when Arthur had come stumbling back through the gates with Eliza, not even when he'd reunited with Matt. Somehow he'd known Matt was alive, felt it. But it wasn't until the moment Arthur was right in front of him, covered in dirt and so much blood, and had collapsed into Alfred's arms that Alfred had dared to believe Arthur wasn't gone forever. God, that had only been hours ago, Alfred thought. Arthur hadn't wanted to be alone or to close his eyes after everything that had happened, so Alfred had sat next to him on the mattress, talking about anything but what they were feeling, until Arthur's body had made the executive decision that sleep was no longer a suggestion. After spending the entire night wishing time would move faster, now Alfred wished he could stop it all together and give Arthur the uninterrupted hours he desperately needed.

Alfred needed the hours, too, to figure out what he was feeling, if nothing else. It burned, this troubling emotion that had grown steadily for weeks. He knew what it was, truthfully, but not what it meant, not what it could mean in this new world. At any moment everything they'd worked for could be taken from them, and everyone they loved could be dead. It wasn't exactly the ideal atmosphere for romance, and feelings were a liability if anything. Alfred knew that. And yet he couldn't shake the urge to give in, to reach out and hold tight to the only thing that made real sense in all the madness. It was one of the few things that still felt human, felt alive.

That's exactly what Alfred had felt as Arthur had pressed his lips against his for a split second before disappearing out the window and into the undead horde. Maybe it had just been a parting shot, the now or never moment that made the thought of dying the tiniest bit more palatable. But it had felt like more, and Alfred would have returned the gesture tenfold the moment Arthur had gotten back if Arthur hadn't been blood splattered and crying against his chest. Now, with Arthur close enough that Alfred could feel his body heat, and the weight of an endless night, the urge returned.

The sound of the double doors cracking open and a burst of rushed whispering broke his concentration, and he half sat up to see what was going on. Ivan had just come in from watch, and was arguing with Eliza. It didn't look like she had slept, but she was still trying to take the rifle and walkie-talkie from Ivan, who shook his head and pushed around her. He strode over to the foot of Alfred and Arthur's mattress and jerked his head to indicate that it was Alfred's turn to get up for watch. Eliza was right at his shoulder, about to argue again when Matt came stumbling over, hopping as he struggled to tie his shoe.

"Ivan, I'll cover him," he whispered quickly, glancing down at Arthur's sleeping form. He grabbed the walkie-talkie and shoved it into the pouch of his sweatshirt as Ivan opened his mouth to retort. "I said I'll cover him."

Ivan shot Alfred a dirty look as he handed the rifle over to Matt, then stalked away. Alfred mouthed his thank you, and Matt nodded, smiling knowingly. He shared a look with Eliza, who was grinning loopily around her fatigue, then put an arm around her shoulder and led her away. Alfred hoped it was to make her lie down, but he couldn't blame her for being unwilling to shut her eyes.

Careful not to jostle the mattress too much, Alfred laid down again. He carefully moved closer to Arthur, his sleeping breaths tickling Alfred's face. Alfred wanted so badly to throw an arm over him and pull him against his chest again, and might have acted on the feeling if he hadn't noticed the discolored clump in Arthur's shaggy hair. Blood had matted the locks of hair behind Arthur's ear, and Alfred brushed his fingers over the area gingerly, trying to determine if the blood was Arthur's or just a spot he'd missed in his frantic scrub down. Arthur twitched and whined as Alfred's fingertips reached skin, thankfully unbroken.

His stomach plunged as he watched Arthur wake up in his own panic and scrabble to slap away his hand. Arthur flailed and kicked blindly, and Alfred did his best not to react as a few of the blows landed painfully, instead holding his hand up and shushing Arthur gently.

"Shhh, shhh, Arthur. Arthur, it's okay, you're okay. It's me. You're fine."

Arthur came to with a trembling inhale, tired eyes sparking with just enough recognition to make him stop fighting.

"You're all right."

Alfred slowly reached out and touched Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur stared at him for a long moment before his face crumbled and he covered it with both of his hands. He was shaking almost imperceptibly, and Alfred wasn't sure if it was with tiny sobs or panicked breaths or the last traces of fear still running through him. Whatever it was broke Alfred's heart and he stroked the side of Arthur's face and his hair until Arthur relaxed and lowered his hands.

"Hey," Alfred whispered, and immediately lost whatever he was going to add to that as Arthur took Alfred's hand in both of his and cradled it against the side of his face. Alfred brushed his knuckles along Arthur's jawline since it was all he could reach. The burning ache in his chest returned as Arthur smiled weakly and then yawned, releasing Alfred's hand so he could cover his mouth. Alfred allowed himself one more indulgent stroke of Arthur's cheek, careful to avoid the cuts, before adjusting his jacket back over Arthur.

"Go back to sleep. I'll be right here."

Arthur smiled again and nodded, almost closing his eyes before inhaling sharply again, and twisting to look over his shoulder.

"Peter's fine, he's sleeping."

He didn't lie back down until he'd seen for himself, but then Arthur finally relaxed with another giant yawn. He blinked sleepily at Alfred a few times, the bleariness of his eyes sweet instead of sad, and Alfred smiled. Arthur's eyelids got progressively heavier, taking longer and longer between blinks. Just when Alfred thought he'd finally fallen back asleep, Arthur's eyes opened and he shyly placed a hand on Alfred's cheek.

"Thank you," he murmured, and leaned forward to brush his lips against Alfred's.

As much as Alfred wanted to give in to the ache inside his chest, he knew it wasn't the right time. If he let those feelings flood out of him now, he wouldn't want to stop. It could wait until after they'd gotten some more rest, until their heads were clearer and they had some privacy. For now, Alfred simply took Arthur's hand and held it in his own against the mattress, his other moving to rest lightly on Arthur's bony hip.

Arthur's eyes slipped closed just as the thin beams of light shifted from grey to golden and the day arrived. As they relaxed into one another, Alfred let the promise of one more day fill his chest with warmth, letting himself feel the hope it brought.


	40. Something Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon on tumblr chose the following from a fic prompt meme: "Congratulations! One of your dreams has finally come true. Let me give you a big hug and wow, you're warm…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True to form, I barely adhered to the prompt. And then made it sad.
> 
> Human AU. Angst ahead.

"Her name is Marianne, and she's a lovely girl."

Alfred's ears felt like they were full of sand, muffled and slowly leaking with an unbearable itchiness. That didn't make sense, though, since he could still hear the buzz of traffic and the chatter and laughter of the people walking through the park. He had heard what Arthur said, all of it, but somehow it was still stuck halfway down the canals, blocked up and not quite reaching his brain. It made sense in some distant, primitive way, but it was still wrong. It felt wrong.

But Arthur was looking at him expectantly, half smiling and half wincing, as if he expected a blow. That felt wrong, too. That hurt, Alfred registered, and slowly the rest of it began to filter through the sand, and comprehension flooded his body with a frigid shock. He squeezed his hand around one of the wide, flat metal bars of the park bench they were sitting on. He wanted so badly to get angry, to feel betrayed or rejected, but he didn't have the right. Even though the freezing pain of it all, Alfred realized that he didn't have the right to any feelings toward Arthur at all because he'd spent so long compartmentalizing his quiet, gnawing desires. He'd waited too long. He'd made a mistake in always assuming there would be more time, that Arthur would figure it out on his own and they'd live happily ever after. Another heavy wave of understanding throttled him, and Alfred struggled against it with a desperate smile. He stopped gripping the bar, palm stinging from where the indentation had begun to press too far.

"Wow. I'm really— I mean, congratulations, man. That's great. It's really great Arthur." Alfred clapped Arthur on the shoulder, perhaps too forced since Arthur bobbed and winced from the strength of it. "She must be really just, uh, great if it happened that fast. How did— when did you guys…"

"Over the summer. Back home. I knew her from before actually, but… anyway, I know it seems rushed, but I think it's the right choice—"

"Sure."

"—and I'm glad you're taking this well."

"How else would I take it?" The question came out more hostile than Alfred had meant it too, and Arthur stared at him with an unspoken understanding that made Alfred's skin crawl. "Look, I'm excited to meet her when she comes over and—"

"She won't be," Arthur said briskly, looking away. "The wedding will be in England."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, of course." Alfred clenched his fists and released them twice, working himself up to sound as cheerful as he was supposed to feel. "Well, then I guess I'll meet her when I go over, or after, when you guys—"

"Alfred." Arthur touched the back of his hand, then recoiled and folded his hands in his lap. "I'm moving back home."

Something cold and hard and sad settled in Alfred's gut, and he began clenching and unclenching his fists again. "You don't have to do what your parents want any more Arthur. You're an adult."

"It's not about them. Of course they want me home, but it's not for them. This is for me." Arthur took a deep breath and took Alfred's hand, squeezing it hard enough to be more of a punctuation to his argument than an indication of intimacy. "I want this. This is the right choice. I need to do this instead of— I need to do this."

The way his eyes were boring into Alfred made him feel brutally vulnerable. There was the unspoken understanding again, and Alfred realized that Arthur _had_ figured it out, had known for a long time, and was going the other way. Arthur's expression softened, not into the welcoming shy smile of a lover, but one of barely restrained pity. He rubbed his thumb over the back of Alfred's hand, and Alfred clenched his jaw, wishing that simple sensation didn't create such a quivering excitement in him.

"I'm choosing _this_."

Alfred's jaw clenched, the undeserved anger rising again. But he forced himself to swallow it back down, to inhale deeply and exhale into as genuine of a smile as he could muster. "I understand."

"Thank you," Arthur said quietly, giving his hand one last squeeze. He checked his watch and sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I should go. There's so much to plan, and— I should go."

He stood, and Alfred followed, and they waited together in unsure silence.

"Well, uh, give me a call if you need help packing."

"I will, thank you." Arthur smiled, but his eyes were sad. "You're a good friend, Alfred."

"That's what I'm here for."

Arthur smiled again and nodded, turning to walk away, but Alfred caught his elbow with his fingertips. Something told him this would be the last time he'd see Arthur, which was absurd, so he had to get it right. He had to convince him it was all right. Alfred's grip grew more desperate as he realized he could wallow in his feelings and lose Arthur, or pretend and stay in his life in some limited way. That would be better than the alternative. It would have to be.

"Wait! Um. I am happy for you Arthur. Really."

He wasn't, but he had to be. He smiled and held his arms out in wobbly invitation, hoping that Arthur would accept, and praying he wouldn't. Arthur hesitated for half a breath before giving in to the hug, wrapping his arms around Alfred's neck.

Arthur was warm. He was warm and soft and Alfred's skin tingled. The hug might have ended friendly if they'd parted immediately, but they lingered. Alfred indulged the sensual ache growing inside of him and pulled Arthur in closer by his waist. He didn't care if it was one-sided, if he was supposed to be pretending, too lost in finally feeling what he had always wondered about. But then Arthur was melting against him, lowering his forehead to Alfred's shoulder. He could feel Arthur's breaths across his collarbone, quick and restrained. Alfred's hands slid across the small of Arthur's back to grip his hips, and Arthur gasped, turning his face toward Alfred's neck. For a split second Alfred could swear he felt his lips brush against the heated, tender skin there, but then Arthur was pulling back. Alfred wasn't ready to let go, and stepped into him. He lowered his head, almost on auto-pilot as he went in for a kiss. Arthur's hand, firmly pressed against his chest, stopped him.

Alfred regained control of himself and stepped back, taking in Arthur's blushing cheeks and watery eyes. His hand was still outstretched, a small, but inviolable barrier against Alfred's longing.

"I'll call you. We'll see each other soon."

"Okay."

"Goodbye, Alfred."

"Bye."

He watched Arthur walk away, getting smaller and smaller against the pavement until finally he had disappeared. Alfred sat back down on the bench, legs weak and heavy, grabbing on to the bars of the seat again. He squeezed and squeezed until he couldn't feel his fingertips, but there was no reason to hold back the hurt any more.

Alfred sat in the park, body still warm and skin still tingling, and cried.


	41. Hanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for one-word prompts on tumblr, and an anonymous user requested: "Hanger (like a clothes hanger)".
> 
> Human AU
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, Criminal-esque activity.

"No, no, no, no!"

Alfred's stomach plummeted straight into the asphalt and his heart galloped clear out of his body when he saw his keys still sitting in the ignition through the window of his car. He nearly lost his grip on the overflow of hangers sticking out of the giant dry cleaning bags, and he scrambled to keep the fancy suits and shirts from tumbling to the ground as he pulled optimistically on the door handle. Luck was not on his side.

"Damn it! Why me?"

He yanked the door handle back and forth, knowing full well it wouldn't do anything, but still hoping a miracle would happen, or at least that he'd get some sort of emergency, anxiety induced strength and rip the door clear off. Grunting and huffing loudly, he swung an exasperated kick at the front tire. He regretted it immediately as blinding pain throbbed up his foot. With a yowl he hopped away from the car and braced himself against the brick wall of the alley.

It was too early in the morning for this bullshit, he thought, and he wasn't remotely caffeinated enough to think through it with any clarity. Willfully ignoring the burning in his arm as he struggled to keep the dry cleaning in line, he pulled out his cell phone and debated his next move. There wasn't enough time to call anyone, and every moment he stayed in the alley was a moment closer to getting fired. He could make a run for it, but 40 blocks with an entire wardrobe in plastic wrap didn't sound promising. Wet little pinpoints of panic started to itch at his eyes and he forced himself to take a deep breath and reboot before he had a total meltdown. Looking around desperately for inspiration, Alfred's spotted an old crumbly brick laying on the asphalt. Bending awkwardly on account of all the clothing, he retrieved the brick, eyes darting back and forth between the dirty stone and his car window. He'd half convinced himself that this was the only option, arm cranking back in preparation for the pitch, when he heard someone clear their throat.

"Is everything quite all right?"

Alfred felt himself go red from his scalp down to his chest and he abruptly dropped the brick. It shattered into several large chunks, a couple of which went flying into his shins and had him hopping in pain all over again. Through blurry vision he took in the man watching him. He was dressed in an expensive looking three piece suit, totally out of place in the gross alley. It looked he might have been smiling, or maybe it was a grimace. It did't really matter what he was doing, so long as he didn't call the cops. In his panic and embarrassment, all Alfred could manage to yell at the stranger was, "Not stealing!"

"Pardon?"

"I'm not— I'm not stealing the car. It's mine, it's my car."

The pain faded and Alfred tried to catch his breath, leaning heavily against the wall again. The man was looking at him with an amused expression, and that only fueled Alfred's mortification. He was pretty dashing looking for first thing in the morning— the stranger— with blonde hair slicked back, shirt crisp and white, suit meticulously maintained and styled. The entire thing looked ripped out of one of those stupid heavy fashion magazines Alfred had to buy for Mr. Bonnefoy. Judging by the expensive looking watch the man was wearing, it probably was. Alfred realized he was staring, and quickly looked away. It probably looked as obvious as it felt, since the stranger laughed.

"So were you planning on smashing the window for fun, or—"

"M-my keys. I locked them in," Alfred struggled to keep his hold on the dry cleaning and slid his glasses back up his nose, a sudden rush of sweat making the metal frames slippery. "And I have somewhere to— I have to go or my ass is toast."

"We can't have that, now can we?", the man quipped with a disarming smile. "You must be desperate if you're willing to destroy your own car just to get in."

Flustered again, Alfred couldn't contain the rush of words that came bubbling up. "My boss is going to kill me. He sent me to pick all this shit up and I'm already behind and he has this super important lunch to go to, so he needs this clothes ASAP— it takes him forever to dress— and I shouldn't even be parked in this alley and I'll probably get a ticket that I can't even afford, and now you think I'm stealing a car. But I'm not, I can prove it! I'll like, recite the license plate number or something, I can do that if you want, because I don't want you to think I'm stealing, cuz I'm not. It's just that I don't know what to do and Mr. Bonnefoy is going to be so mad. He's super picky about everything and I can't lose this job because it's finally decent money and—"

"Your Mr. Bonnefoy sounds like a twat."

Alfred was shocked into silence for just a moment before he realized the man was still smiling. He laughed, still nervous, but coming down. "Kind of. God, I don't know what to do. I'm so dead."

"I think I can help. May I have one of those hangers, please?"

"A hanger?"

"If you don't mind. I would use my own, but seeing as I still haven't gotten my own dry cleaning, I'm afraid I don't have any." The man looked Alfred up and down with an ease that Alfred both envied and found himself immensely taken by. "I don't currently have the luxury of a charming assistant to do my dirty work for me, like Mr. Bonnefoy."

Cheeks blazing, Alfred awkwardly unwrapped enough of one of the suit jackets to get the hanger out and handed it over. He gingerly draped the jacket over his arm, not daring to get the garment the slightest bit wrinkly. The stranger untwisted the hanger, hissing and sucking his thumb a moment when the pointy end of the metal stabbed into him. He got the hanger more or less straight and slid off the cardboard tube from the bottom, leaving just a slight hook. He raised an eyebrow at Alfred, making a great show of modeling the wire for a moment, then focused his attention on wedging the wire into the car window.

"Wait, that actually works? I thought it was just something they did on TV."

"No, it actually works," the man said dryly. "Just give me another moment here."

Alfred watched him fish and wiggle the wire around, anxiety creeping up his spine again. Part of him wanted to keep the conversation with the fascinating stranger going, but if opening the car took much longer, Alfred would end up dead anyway. Unable to stand the silence any longer, Alfred cleared his throat.

"So, how do you know how to do this?"

"Let's just say life experience."

"Like what?"

The man didn't answer, instead letting out a humming laugh. Alfred saw his mischievous grin in the reflection of the window for a split second before his features rearranged into intense focus. With a final shove and jiggle, he yanked the hanger up with a click. Dramatically flourishing his hand again, he opened the car door and gestured for Alfred to get in.

"Your chariot awaits."

"Oh my god," Alfred said as he leaned in to pull the keys out of the ignition. "That was amazing. A little scary, but damn. Thank you, man, you're really saving my life here."

He held out his hand, almost dropping the hanger-less jacket. The man snorted, and instead of shaking Alfred's hand, stuck a business card between his fingers.

"What's this for?" Alfred asked, face heating up again as he clumsily examined the card. "Arthur Kirkland."

"For when you find yourself locked out again. Or if you're ever seeking different employment. Or…"

"Or?"

Arthur shrugged, a smirk flitting across his mouth. Alfred's heart pounded in his ears, and he looked down the ground with a goofy grin. He wanted so badly to come up with a charming retort, some kind of sexy James Bond one-liner, but all he managed to say was, "Cool."

"Cool," Arthur repeated, prim accent bending around the word with audible humor. "Well, it was lovely to meet you—?"

"Alfred!"

"Alfred. Charming. We'll run into each other again, soon, I hope." He looked around the alley, arching an eyebrow at Alfred again. "A change of setting might be nice, though."

Alfred could only nod and laugh, his stomach a chaotic mix of knots and butterflies.

"All right, then. Best of luck, Alfred."

Arthur smiled and gave Alfred a once over one last time before turning around and heading down the alley towards the street. Alfred watched him go with a dopey grin on his face, still not quite sure what had happened, but rethinking the notion that it was not luck that led him to lock his keys in his car. He started putting the dry cleaning in the car in a daze, which was only broken when Arthur turned around at the end of the alley.

"And tell Mr. Bonnefoy I'm looking forward to our lunch."

By the time the comment had registered, Arthur was gone and Alfred was left sitting in his car, one leg still hanging out the open door. He laughed long and hard, tucking Arthur's business card carefully into his shirt pocket, not worrying in the slightest whether he would be late.


	42. Shampoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes are hard, and sometimes it's the little things that mean the most. 
> 
> America & Fem!England canonverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested "shampoo" as a one word prompt.

"Come on, love. You have to be at the airport in two hours. We need to get up."

America mumbles something against the back of her neck, and a series of warm shivers run down England's spine. She tries to turn over, but America tightens his grip around her middle, hands scrunching up the front of her (his) t-shirt and brushing against the sliver of skin that is revealed. He curls closer around her, chin banging awkwardly into her shoulder, and inhales deeply. England squirms against the ticklish feeling of his exhale as a few strands of her hair are blown across her ear and onto her cheek.

It feels too good, too cozy to fight him. She decides to give in and relish in his closeness while it lasts. She knows she'll miss it in a few days, a few hours if she's being honest with herself. Resting her arms over his around her middle, she decides to give herself no more than five minutes. The struggle to keep her eyes open is harder than she'd thought, and she forces herself to focus on the second hand of her alarm clock, watching as it easily flies around the numbers three, four, five, six times. She's always breaking her own rules for America, she thinks with a sigh, and starts wriggling around in America's arms, hoping it will wake him. It doesn't, and he continues taking deep, sleep-drunk breaths, the precursors to snores that never quite come.

He's probably drooling in her hair, she thinks, and tries to pull at his arms. When that doesn't work, she presses an elbow into his stomach, applying more and more pressure until he finally rolls away with a whine. She takes the opportunity to sit up quickly, flipping the covers off of both of them, and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. America whines longer, rolling onto his stomach and curling up against the rush of cold air against his bare back.

"I know, I know. C'mon," she whispers through a yawn, and gives his rear a light swat over his sweatpants.

England gathers up an outfit and slips into the bathroom, leaving America to wake up and shake it off on his own. By the time she's cleaned up and reemerges fully dressed, America is sitting up on the edge of the bed. Or at least is propped up, since he's half hunched over with his arms around England's pillow. His face is pressed into it and he breathes in and out several times, the same deep, slow breathing he had been doing into England's hair.

England smiles and watches him, learning against the doorway. She thinks it's endearing that he's fallen asleep sitting up, but then he rubs his face against the pillow, very much awake, inhaling again.

"What are you doing?"

Any trace of sleepiness leaves America's body as he sits up stick straight, flinging the pillow away from him. His face instantly flushes a dark red and he opens his mouth to say something once, twice, three times, but no words come out. England doesn't know what to make of it, thinking for a half a second that she's caught him doing something dirty. But nothing seems out of place, other than his terrific bedhead and unwillingness to look at her.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"Um—"

"What were you doing with my pillow?"

"Nothing! I mean, not like— I wasn't doing anything gross, I was just…" America covers his face with both hands and rubs his eyes viciously, shaking his head back and forth.

"Then what were you doing?"

America is quiet, shrinking down as he continues rubbing his face. He sighs nervously, and when he finally does take his hands away and speaks, his voice is so soft that England can barely hear it.

"I was just smelling it, okay?"

"What?"

"I was smelling your pillow." America's face flashes red again, and he flaps his hands in a cancelling motion. "Not like in a nasty way or anything! Not sexual, just— god, I sound like such a creep."

England watches as he flops backward onto the bed, legs hanging over the sides, and hands going to cover his face. She's still not sure what to think, but there's something sweet about how embarrassed America is. She moves to sit on the bed casually, noticing that the flush has reached America's chest.

"Why were you doing that?"

America groans and flings his arms flat against the mattress, looking up at England with watery eyes and even messier bedhead. "Don't make fun of me, okay? It just smells nice. Like, your hair. Or shampoo, or whatever."

"Oh. That's not strange." England reaches out to run her fingertips through the most ridiculous looking portion of his fluffy cowlick. "You can use it, you know. I don't mind."

"No, that's not it," America says quietly, turning his head away from her combing. "It's just on you. I miss it. When I go home, I mean."

"Really?"

"Yeah." America sits up next to her, elbows resting on knees. "I don't know, I get so used to it. And then when I go home it's like I can't sleep without it. That smell. Your hair always smells so good, and it's kind of soothing, I guess. I miss it." He straightens and looks at England, expression sad and sweet as he brushes a flyaway hair behind her ear. "So I was just trying to get my last fix before I have to live without it for however long."

England catches his hand as he pulls it away from her hair, and holds it in her lap, thumb rubbing over his knuckles. She's not sure what to say, overwhelmed by his confession. It reminds her too much of her own trouble adjusting whenever he's gone, of the way she'll roll onto his side of the bed, expecting him to be there, or how she'll wake up and make coffee for a week after he's left because she forgets there's no one there to drink it. A heaviness settles in her chest, at war with the fluttery feeling of being loving and being loved. She searches for something to say to America, something to lighten the mood and go back to the silly, blushing nonsense about a pillow. As she looks at him, she can feel her eyes stinging with the threat of tears, and she looks down at their hands for a moment to collect herself. With a sniff, she puts on her best brave smile.

"Lie down with me?"

"What?"

"Just for little while."

"I thought we had to leave soon."

"We do," England says, even as she pulls America toward the center of the bed and rearranges the pillows and blankets to recreate their comfortable nest. "But fifteen more minutes won't hurt anything."

America is still sitting up, tempted and worried and sad. Gently, England pulls him down to the bed, rolling onto her side and closing his arms back around her middle. She shifts until the contour of their bodies match exactly right. It takes America a few moments to relax and give in. When he finally does, England can feel his lips press against her shoulder through her sweater, and then the familiar tickle of his breath as he nuzzles his forehead into the nape of her neck.

England grips his arms tightly as he inhales deeply, both of them trying to get that final fix. It would have to do for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now up to date. Any new chapters will be posted here at the same time they are posted to tumblr and FFN.


	43. Elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elevator gets stuck, and Alfred isn't handling it very well. Which is super awkward, considering how cute his partner in captivity is. 
> 
> Human AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested elevator as a one word prompt.

“Hold the door, please!”

Alfred stuck his hand in front of the elevator sensor, parting the doors just in time for the guy from apartment 4F to slip inside. He didn’t know his name, but he and Matt had been only half jokingly calling him “the hottie down the hall” for the last three months. 4F shot him a polite demi-smile in thanks, and jostled his two overstuffed grocery bags as he settled against the thin metal rail bolted to the elevator walls. As the doors closed and the elevator hiccuped to life again, he put one bag down between his feet and sighed heavily, glancing at Alfred with an exaggerated weariness. Alfred smiled and nodded his head, not quite sure what it was he was supposed to be agreeing to, but eager to share in whatever it was 4F was trying to communicate.

He’d tried to get up the courage to talk to 4F a few times before. As far as Alfred could tell, he never had any consistent visitors that gave any indication he was in a relationship. Matt insisted he was gay, but that might have been simple wishful thinking. Or projection. Both, probably, Alfred thought as a couple of butterflies took up residence in his stomach. Now would be the perfect moment to casually introduce himself. He took a deep breath as quietly as he could and stood up straight.

“Hey, so you’re in apartment 4—”

Before he could get the rest of the question out, the lights flickered and the elevator lurched, vibrating tenuously for a moment before coming to a complete stop. The butterflies in his stomach slammed against each other, creating crashing waves of nausea. Alfred’s heart started to hammer as he realized they were stuck.

“Damn it,” 4F hissed, one hand braced against the railing as he pigeon-toed his feet to keep his bag of groceries from toppling over. He regained his balance and started poking at the elevator buttons, glaring at the doors between tries, waiting for them to pop open.

“Don’t,” Alfred managed to gasp out, his breathing coming fast and shallow.

“Pardon?”

“Don’t do that. What if we— what if we’re between floors and it op-opens and there’s just nothing th-there?”

“Oh my god, are you all right?” 4F put his groceries down and moved towards Alfred, eyeing him cautiously.

Alfred winced as his movement made the elevator bounce almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, uh, yeah. I mean, no. This is kind of a nightmare scenario for me,” he said with a nervous laugh, which quickly turned into a desperate swallow as a full on butterfly rebellion gagged him. “Ugh. Um. I really hate this, sorry.”

4F nodded, the obvious concern on his face making Alfred both embarrassed and grateful. He watched as 4F examined the buttons again and pressed a red one with a bell icon painted on it. It lit up and 4F nodded to himself, turning to Alfred again with a gentle smile.

“It’s okay. Someone knows we’re in here now and—“

“Who? Who knows?”

“I… I don’t know, actually. But someone, the elevator people. They know and they’ll fix it.”

“How long?”

“Not very, I don’t think.”

“Oh god. What if we’re stuck in here forever?” Alfred felt too warm, his breathing still too fast and uneven.

4F moved closer to him again, arms outstretched and hands flapping in a poorly articulated soothing gesture as he tried to work out how to help, but then he caught the queasy look on Alfred’s face and seemed to think better of it. “We won’t be. We’re going to be fine. Just, uh, take your jacket off, try to breathe deep.”

Alfred did as he was told, tossing his jacket to the floor. It lifted some of the weight off of him, and he forced a few big breaths into his lungs. His stomach still hurt, and he was increasingly more aware of his embarrassment. Another string of nervous laughs erupted from his mouth.

“This is the worst. This is totally how horror movies start. What if the world just ended and we don’t know because we’re stuck in here and then we have to fight our way out? Like, okay, we probably aren’t stuck, but what if we are? I mean, at least you— at least you have food and we won’t have to resort to cannibalism or something. Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that. I just mean we’re going to be okay, like you said, obviously. I know that. Right?”

4F was looking at him like he was a lunatic and Alfred felt his face get even hotter.

“Or maybe this is a sign, y’know? Like in, uh, what is that movie? You’ve Got Mail? Where they get stuck and everyone has some stupid epiphany or something and then Tom Hanks breaks up with his girlfriend because he realizes she sucks. What if it’s like that? And we’re supposed to like, change our lives or something.”

4F laughed a laugh that was more concerned than amused, some kind of incredulous bark, as he watched Alfred have his meltdown. At this point Alfred wasn’t sure if he was more freaked out about the elevator, or looking like a fool in front of him. He just couldn’t seem to stop his anxious mouth.

“If that’s true, then I’m giving up McDonald’s and only taking the stairs from now on. I don’t care if it’s a 40 story skyscraper. Although, let’s be real, I’ll never get anywhere near a building that big, I’m not fancy or whatever.” Alfred had to catch his breath, but the momentary silence made his skin crawl. “What would you change?”

4F shook his head, taken aback. It took him a moment to process Alfred’s question, and Alfred’s heart continued to hammer wildly as he watched him.

“Uh, well. I don’t know. I guess I’d… take more risks?”

“Just in general? That seems risky. Ha ha. Risky. I didn’t mean to say that.” Alfred scuffed his shoes against the floor, looking down as he searched for something to say to keep his mind occupied and deflect the awkwardness he’d generated. “But hey, at least this will be a good story for you to tell. Getting stuck in the elevator with the nut job. Or it will be a great story to tell our kids. Holy shit, I’m sorry, that was such a weird thing to say. You must think I’m a total creep.”

4F stammered for a second and then laughed. To Alfred’s surprise, it sounded genuine.

“No, I don’t. You seem perfectly nice, just a little, uh, flustered. To say the least. I don’t blame you.”

He smiled, no trace of discomfort, no just being nice. It was so cute that Alfred felt his butterflies drop dead, thoroughly charmed.

“You seem to be handling this fine.”

“One of use has to,” he said with a wry grin, and Alfred’s nerves began to cool.

“Well, can you maybe hit me over the head with a soup can or something, because I think that’s the only way I’ll stop talking.”

They kept smiling at each other, and Alfred felt relief wash over him. Just as he was about to introduce himself properly, the elevator hummed and lurched, carrying them upward, and opening smoothly on the 4th floor. 4F gathered up his groceries and nodded for Alfred to get out first. Fumbling to pick up his jacket and not trip over his own feet as he stepped into the hall, Alfred put his arm in front of the sensor again, keeping the door open for 4F. They watched the doors close and heard the elevator make it’s return to the lobby.

“Well, I guess you were right. We survived.”

“We did.”

“Thanks. For being calm. And not thinking I’m crazy.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Alfred rocked back and forth, heel to toe a few times, unsure of what else to say. He shyly hitched a thumb over his shoulder and took a few steps backwards down the hall toward his apartment, “Okay, well—”

“Right,” 4F said abruptly, exhaling and shaking his head as he turned to go down the other end of the hall. He got barely 5 paces away when he turned around suddenly, cheeks pink and shoulders scrunched up to his ears. “Actually, um. I’m Arthur. You’re in 4C right?”

“Yeah. I’m Alfred.”

“And you live with your—?” Arthur trailed off on the question, a strange tone in his voice making Alfred wonder what it was he was thinking.

“Brother. Matt.”

Arthur smiled at him, something bordering on shyness making it all the cuter to Alfred.

“Um, would you mind giving me a hand with one these? If you’re not doing anything, anyway.” he said, gesturing with the grocery bags.

“Sure, if you want.” Alfred rushed to relieve him of the heaviest looking one, the previously dead butterflies in his stomach miraculously resurrected.

Arthur nodded and led Alfred down the hall. The silence was just as tense as it had been in the elevator, but now it wasn’t from awkwardness. There was something else making Alfred’s heart beat faster, some tiny possibility of flirtation that had him bouncing a little with every step. As they arrived in front of his door, Arthur turned around, flinching a little in surprise when he realized how close Alfred had been walking behind him. He bit his lip and scrunched his eyebrows together.

“I don’t actually need help.”

“Okay? I don’t—” Alfred frowned and looked at his feet, wondering if he should just leave the bag and run. Maybe he had misread the situation, but it didn’t make any sense for Arthur to have asked him for help in the first place.

His flurry of thoughts was interrupted by the jingle of keys, and he looked up to see Arthur opening his door one-handed, stepping inside the apartment and indicating with a nod of his head that Alfred should come in, too.

Alfred’s question must have been apparent on his face, because Arthur smiled and shrugged.

“Let’s just consider this me taking a risk.”

 

 

 


	44. Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is sleepy and England thinks it's adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr requested UKUS or USUK with the one word prompt "cover". I guess this is a very loose interpretation of a prompt based on that word, but this is where my brain went.

England found America drooped on the closed toilet seat, toothbrush still half in his mouth and the faintest beginnings of a snore rattling around in his throat. The elbow propped up on the sink was slipping, so the palm against America’s cheek was smushing his face up, threatening to knock his glasses off. And there was definitely some cocktail of drool and toothpaste beginning to leak out the corner of his mouth. England smiled, unable to help but find the scene adorable even in all it’s grotesqueness. What a patently America thing, he thought— the constant, undeniable charm he so easily carried that made even the worst things better than anything England had ever had. But that was also probably a symptom of England’s special brand of sickness when it came it loving him as much as he did.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” he said gently, pressing his lips together to contain his smile as America spluttered and blinked awake.

“Wha— I’m not— ugh.”

America gave up whatever sentence he’d been trying to form and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Pushing his glasses up to the top of his head, he stood clumsily and half-heartedly brushed his teeth for another ten seconds before rinsing everything off, including his face. He either didn’t remember or didn’t care to use the towel, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe messily at his cheeks and chin. England appreciated the glimpse of his stomach and chest, but even that was more endearing than sexy. America squinted and yawned at him, looking dreamy and lost.

“What?”

“Bed.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

England chuckled as America brushed past him into the bedroom, tossed his glasses onto the nightstand, and dramatically flopped down face first onto the covers. The mattress bounced him slightly as he snuggled in, feet dangling off the side still in their trainers. England swatted his backside lightly, earning a lazy grunt, and then grabbed at the right hip of his jeans and tugged in an attempt to flip him over.

“No, get undressed first.”

America whined, but rolled over.

“Yeah, wanna help?” He undid the fly of his pants with a grin that was probably supposed to be sultry, but ended up being ruined by another yawn.

“What, and have you fall asleep on top of me again?” England crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow teasingly, but America turned a little red anyway.

“That was _one time_! And I told you, it wasn’t because I wasn’t into it, I was just—”

“I know, I know,” England soothed.

America made a faux-angry face and tried to hook a leg around England to pull him down, but England dodged and caught his foot. He untied his shoe and pried it off, letting it and America’s foot fall to the floor, then held his hand out. America sighed and lifted up his other foot and let England rid him of that shoe as well. England saw fit to reward him for his cooperation with a quick peck on the lips as he hauled America into a sitting position before walking around the bed so he could change into his own pyjamas.

“Why are you so tired anyway? I don’t think you’ve been this jet lagged in decades. Thought you’d be used to it by now.”

“It’s not that,” America said, finally standing to step out of his jeans. He wiggled around in his boxers, trying to adjust and get comfortable, which made England roll his eyes with another chuckle. “There was a ton of last minute shit that came up and the Prez was all like we need to get this done or you can’t go. So I said bite me.”

“You did not,” England chided, buttoning up his pyjama top.

“No, I really did,” America crowed, peeling his damp shirt off. “And then I stayed up for two days straight getting everything done on the off chance he actually meant it.”

England laughed, too happy in the moment to even bother scolding America for the rapidly growing pile of dirty laundry accumulating on his bedroom floor.

“You didn’t sleep on the plane?” England asked as America kneeled to rummage through his suitcase, more clothes spilling out on to the floor.

“Well, I was going to, but then I ended up sitting next to this really nice lady named Kathy and she has three kids and she was telling me about—,” he paused making a disgruntled noise and intensifying his search efforts. “Where are my—?”

“Here,” England called, and pulled one of America’s t-shirts out of his dresser. He had a habit of always leaving some article of clothing behind, and England wasn’t at all convinced it was accidental. Whether it was meant to be a comfort to him or to America, England didn’t know, but he wasn’t above wearing one of his shirts to bed every now and then when the distance and loneliness got to him, even if they were all comically baggy on him.

“Oh. Thanks!”

America caught the t-shirt and pulled it on, hair getting gloriously mussed as a result. He leapt onto the bed again, this time backside first, and looked expectantly up at England, tiredness still apparent around his eyes.

“Under the covers, hurry up,” England scolded, and then set to turning off all the lights before crawling into bed himself.

America was already turned away and probably half asleep, and England rolled his eyes again and smiled to himself. He looked up at the ceiling in the darkness, waiting for any sign of tiredness to hit him. He contained it well, but it was so exciting to have America near, taking up space and warming up his bed, warming up everything in that effortless way he had. It made England feel giddy and drunk, and he curled his toes and clenched and unclenched his hands a few times to redirect some of that energy to keep from bursting.

“Wait,” America mumbled groggily, and wriggled around to face England again. “Sorry, I forgot.”

England didn’t have a chance to ask before America's warm hands were cupping his face and his lips were pressing gently against England’s, no sense of urgency, no awkwardness even with several months of being out of practice. The rightness of it stole England’s breath away even after all this time.

“Goodnight. I love you,” America whispered against his mouth, and then rolled back over again.

England melted, unable to respond or move until America reached back and tugged at him until England turned on his side, too. Bringing England’s arm over him so he would spoon him properly, America snuggled down, his breathing evening out and threatening to turn into a snore again. England shifted closer, craving the irreplaceable feeling of their bodies aligning perfectly. He waited a few minutes before slowing slipping his hand up under America’s t-shirt, stopping when he could feel his heartbeat thudding against his palm. It was something he’d started doing by accident, covering America’s heart with his hand as they slept, naturally gravitating towards it in that messy, clingy way that could only happen in deep sleep and complete devotion. The habit had stuck, and America had started doing it to him as well when he took his turn as the “big spoon”, although he just as often let his hand slip lower, until it was halfway beneath the waistband of England’s pyjama pants, covering the ticklish patch of skin below his navel. That was comforting in it’s own way, but nothing compared to the feeling of America’s bare skin and beating heart, constant and soothing. England felt his eyes get heavier with each thumping heartbeat, and sighed contentedly.

Before he surrendered to sleep entirely, he pressed his lips to America’s shoulder and whispered, “I love you, too.”


	45. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning plans are on hold when England has a hard time getting out of bed. America will just have to find a different way to spend time with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous requester on tumblr sent me the prompt "sleeping beauty". I have a feeling they probably meant the fairytale/Disney movie, but this is where I went with it hahaha. Hope you enjoy!

America has already downed two cups of coffee, checked all his social media, and flipped noncommittally through all the tv channels by the time he gives up and decides to slip back into bed with England. He briefly debates whether waking him up would be worth the grumpy scolding he'd get. Ultimately he figures it's better to have England in a good mood for a shorter amount of time than spend all day dodging sleepy glares. It's a bit of a tricky operation to wiggle himself under the covers and settle in without waking England up, but America finally manages to slide in next to him.

England remains dead to the world, something close to a snore rattling out of his parted lips. He's on his back, which is unusual for him, covers pulled up lopsided over his far shoulder, and his other hand resting palm up on the pillow. England's face is totally relaxed, which only means he's blissfully unaware how weird his face is, all smushed cheeks and tangled hair and what looks suspiciously like drool. It's gross and ugly, but America also finds it adorable. That's not really a word that anyone else would use for England, but he thinks it fits.

He resigns himself to being stuck watching England sleep for as long as it takes, but truthfully it isn't that bad. It's a chance to really study him, to admire the fair skin dotted with tiny freckles and ruddy where he'd had his face against the pillow, the curves and angles of his nose and brow, the bow and slant of his mouth. America is struck with the urge to touch his face, to cup his cheek and kiss him, to make him see how precious he is from America's perspective. But that would destroy his voyeuristic moment, so he just snuggles further into the bed, warm, ticklish feelings in his stomach making him fidget and smile.

The movement disturbs England's sleep just enough that he scrunches his face up and makes a grumbling sound, and America freezes. England's eyes open for a few moments, fluttering and squinting, not fully seeing yet.

"Hey, sweetheart," America says with genuine enthusiasm, but also hoping that if he sets the tone England won't be too grouchy about being woken.

England blinks at him, brows furrowed, until the words register, and then he smiles. It's so gorgeous and soft that America almost does give in and kiss him. But England's eyes close again, too heavy with sleep, though the smile stays on his lips.

Now America is really fidgeting, beaming at his love and desperate for some way to freeze the moment. He slowly reaches for his phone, careful not to move too much and jostle England, and lines up the perfect shot. The light in the bedroom is soft, but bright enough to give England a blurry glow. America presses his screen to capture the moment, remembering too late that it's not on vibrate and he hasn't turned off the flash. There's a burst of light and the fake shutter sound, and England's face scrunches up even more moodily than before. America fumbles to try to hide the phone, but it's too late. England is staring at him through narrowed, tired eyes, lips thin and pursed.

"What are you doing?"

"Uh." He tries to think of a good lie, but all he can come up with is, "Snapchatting?"

"I only have a vague idea what that means", England says through a yawn, stretching his arms above his head and gripping the headboard for a moment. "You'd better not send that to anyone if I looked funny."

"Too late, already sent it. And yeah, you were hideous."

America barely has the joke out before England is whacking his pillow into his face and trying to hold it there. But he's laughing, and America is laughing too, and they wrestle for control of the pillow until it's tossed aside and America has England pinned to the bed.

"You didn't really, did you?" England huffs, pink and disheveled and out of breath.

"Nah," America says, lowering himself down. "It was just for me."

"Creep," England says to mask his pleased smile.

"Couldn't help it. You were pretty beautiful."

England doesn't even bother to act unaffected, instead looping his arms around America's neck and pulling him down for a kiss. America lets out a happy hum as England pets the hair at the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his limbs and stoking a warm, bubbly feeling in his lower belly. It makes America so giddy, that he breaks away to leave tiny kisses across England's cheek and forehead, enjoying the playful mood.

"I mean, you were drooling, but still. It was cute," he teases, enjoying the slow transition in England's expression.

"All right, that's it. Get off me. You're too heavy, anyway."

"That's not what you were saying last night."

England squirms underneath him, shoving him in the chest and making indignant little noises that are probably only half sincere.

"Off!"

There's another good natured struggle, legs getting caught in sheets and blankets being flung, until America successfully rolls over and brings England with him, wrapping his arms around England's middle so he's trapped on top.

"Better?"

"You're softer than the mattress, anyway," England teases, and pokes at America's side as much as he can while still trapped America's arms.

"Hey!" America laughs, tightening his hold to stop the prodding.

When England gives up, America relaxes, rubbing slow circles on England's back, then skimming down towards his hips. He stops at the spot where England's shirt has ridden up, leaving a smooth strip of skin bare, and he playfully grabs his ass. England makes a face and shifts, and America widens his legs to give him more room.

"You okay?"

"Sore."

America winces in sympathy and lays his palms flat against England's lower back, hoping a little warmth will help.

But then he follows it up with, "It's because you're so old", and England is trying to jab him again.

"It's from the plane. I hate sitting that long."

"Just the plane?" America says flirtatiously, again grabbing his ass, but being more gentle about it this time.

"Oh, please. Don't act so smug. It's not from _that_."

"Not even a little?" America pretend pouts, and massages the tender area. England lets out a half groan-half giggle of satisfaction, and smiles.

"Fine, it's about sixty percent plane and thirty percent you."

"What's the other ten percent?"

"That I'm so old."

They both laugh, and America steals another kiss. England lays his head against America's shoulder, face turned into his neck, balmy tendrils of breath tickling. They fit snugly together, cozy despite the tornado status of the bedding. England sighs and nuzzles closer, one of those rare moments of completely open affection that America treasures.

"Why'd you stop? Felt nice," he says quietly, and America smiles and kisses the top of his head as he goes back to rubbing easy circles into the small of England's back.

After a few minutes, America can feel England's body going slack and relaxed on top of him, heavy and flushed with heat. His breathing is slowing down, too, but getting suspiciously louder. America stops his massaging, and twists his neck as best he can to look down at England.

"Feel better?"

"Mmmm", England groans sleepily.

"Still tired?"

" 'm fine."

America smiles to himself, resigned to his unavoidable fate, and carefully slides England off of him so he can gather up the mess of blankets and put the bed back together.

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart. You obviously need it."

"I'm fine, really. Just give me a minute to get going," England argues unconvincingly as his words are punctuated by a giant yawn.

America lays the sheets and comforter over him, and England gives up any semblance of trying to stay awake as he fluffs his pillow and settles in. Slipping back into bed, America adjusts until he's on his side, watching England's eyes get heavier.

"Feel bad," England mutters, voice thick and gravelly. "About wasting the day. For you."

"Nah," America whispers, pulling England close, their legs intertwining and noses nearly touching. "The plan was to spend the day together anyway. Where doesn't really matter."

England is able to give the faintest touch of a smile before his tiredness overtakes him. It's quiet and cozy, and America feels the buzz of contentment swelling in his chest as he holds England close. It may not be the ideal way to spend their first day together, but he's grateful they can be together at all. America watches as his face slowly relaxes back into the unflattering sag of sleep, unaware of how beautiful to America it actually is.


	46. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a one word tumblr prompt for the word "dancing". 
> 
> Continuation of the Zombie Apocalypse AU. This story takes place after the Brothers Prompt in Chapter 32, but before the Bed Sharing Prompt in Chapter 39.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fully aware no one asked for this or even likes this AU. 
> 
> I guess I'll just keep throwing snippets out there until I break down and write this for real. Or don't write it for real. We'll see.
> 
> Warnings: Profanity, body horror related to zombies

"You're late." Arthur called as he yanked open the padlock and undid the chain fastening the fence. Matthew was already enthusiastically rolling the fence back, so Arthur stood aside as the familiar car glided into the church lot, piloted by a familiar face and mischievous grin.

"I thought we were going to have to send out a search party," he half-teased, leaning down to peer into the driver side window.

Gilbert extended his fist for a quick bump. His cheeks and forehead were sunburnt, fading but still red and sore looking. Arthur noted the scratched up arm and knuckles, but returned the gesture without comment.

"Chill, I come bearing gifts," Gilbert said, and popped the trunk of the car with a flourish.

By this time, Katya and Ivan had appeared; Katya beaming and jogging to greet their friend, and Ivan doing whatever his approximation of a convivial smile was. There was a rush of activity as hugs were exchanged and a pair of boxes were unloaded from the trunk and promptly whisked into the reception hall. Arthur lagged behind with Gilbert, bumping shoulders gently to get his attention and lowering his voice.

"Really, though. Everything alright?"

Gilbert stopped, turning to face Arthur. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Grandpa's had a bad couple of days. I didn't want to leave in case, y'know."

"I'm sorry."

"It is what it is," he said with a weary shrug.

The sound of the church doors creaked far too loudly for Arthur's comfort, and they turned to see Peter sprinting toward them, a bigger smile on his face than Arthur had seen in a long time. Arthur's chest felt tighter at the sight of it, the relief of seeing his brother acting like a child again mixed with knowing that it wouldn't last for long. The doors creaked again, and this time it was Alfred, trailing after Peter with a worried expression that faded once he saw Arthur and Gilbert standing in the lot, and waved cheerfully. That made Arthur's chest feel tight, too, but he swallowed that away to think about at a more convenient time.

Gilbert's posture changed, any trace of heaviness gone as he stretched his arms out in invitation to Peter.

"But hey! I didn't come to be a downer. I think today is a day to par-tay!" he crowed, letting out an exaggerated "oof" as Peter collided with him in a fierce hug. He let himself be smothered, laughing and ruffling Peter's hair before pulling away and fishing something out of the pocket of his jean jacket.

"Here, little man, I brought you something."

He produced a grey cassette tape, and Peter bounced with excitement.

"Haven't even listened to it myself yet, total surprise," he said, letting Peter take it to turn it over and over in his hands like a precious treasure.

"What do you say to Gilbert, Peter?" Arthur urged and Peter looked at him with an embarrassed expression. He knew it wasn't likely to work, and he felt a little guilty for trying, but with the happy energy Arthur had hoped he could coax a few words out of the boy.

Gilbert broke the awkwardness with a smile and another ruffle of Peter's hair.

"Not talking today, huh? It's cool. C'mon, go get your stuff set up. Let's get this party started."

Peter nodded enthusiastically, grabbing Gilbert's hand and pulling him toward the church at a run. Arthur watched them go, the comfort of seeing Peter so lively only the tiniest bit dampened by his jealousy of his easy relationship with Gilbert.

"Party?"

Arthur jumped, having forgotten for a moment that Alfred was there, watching. The strained feeling in his chest returned, and he tried to cough it away. He shrugged and indicated with his head that they should follow into the church.

"You'll see. It's a once a month thing. Liz insisted we do something fun to keep from going crazy."

"Oh. Cool." Alfred shuffled his feet and came closer to Arthur, about to speak again when he caught sight of something over Arthur's shoulder. "Shit, lemme get that though."

Arthur looked to where he was pointing and saw a biter banging itself against the fence, drawn by the noise. It was slow and awkward, obviously older and less than fresh, but still mostly mobile. It gnashed its teeth against the metal, tearing away some of the putrid, flaking skin around its mouth, and Arthur shook his head.

"Leave it. It's just one. It will wander off." He grabbed Alfred's hand to bring his attention away from the fence, a pathetic thrill coursing through him at the touch. "Come on."

The reception hall was practically buzzing by the time they got there. Liz had pulled the long wooden table away from the wall to unpack Gilbert's boxes of treats. It was sad that a few bags of stale chips were considered exciting fare now, Arthur thought. There was also a plastic bag of oranges, which was genuinely thrilling, and something wrapped in a towel that Arthur hoped was actual bread.

"Pick your poison. We've got warm soda, warm beer, or warm vodka," Liz said with a laugh as Arthur and Alfred approached the table.

Arthur gestured for Alfred to have the first pick, and Alfred pretended to give everything a serious look.

"Wow. I mean these are all really tempting choices, don't get me wrong, but I think I'll stick with my warm water for now,"

"Suit yourself," Arthur said, and picked up a can of beer. The popping sound of it opening was satisfying even if the taste left something to be desired.

"What a square," Matthew muttered with a teasing lilt as he split a soda into two paper cups and topped them off with vodka, handing one to Katya. Alfred stuck his leg out to trip him up, but Matthew avoided it with a laugh.

Arthur went to sit on the narrow couches against the far wall to nurse his gross beer, pleased when Alfred followed him and sat next to him in comfortable silence. They watched as everyone talked and laughed, enlivened by the change of pace.

Matt and Katya retreated to a corner to whisper about something over their cups. Liz spent far too much time arranging the food and drink just so, only for Ivan to sit on the table and grab an orange, leaving chunks of peel and pith everywhere. Even Roderich had emerged from hiding, pensively picking at a handful of chips.

"You gonna get down with us this time, Roddy?" Gilbert hollered, returning with Peter and his boombox in tow.

Gilbert clapped Roderich on the back, nearly doubling him over with the force. Roderich choked daintily around his mouthful of chips and responded with his trademark, barely concealed disdain.

"Unless you happen to have a waltz on there, it's unlikely."

Even from across the room, Arthur could hear Liz's scoff and see the roll of her eyes as she left her post to join Katya and Matt in the corner, pointedly turning her back.

"You never know. Weirder things have happened," Gilbert replied, then turned to Peter. "Okay buddy, ready to fire this thing up?"

Peter nodded enthusiastically. He set the boom box on the table gently, and then went about the great ritual of putting in the precious batteries. There was a solemnity to Peter's process that indicated just how much this meant to him. Arthur hoped something good was on that tape. If it was another motivational speaker, they all might just lose it.

Once the batteries were in place, Gilbert turned on the boombox and lowered the cassette door, handing the tape to Peter as if he were bestowing a knighthood upon him.

"Let 'er rip."

It was silent for what felt like an eternity as all attention was focused on the boombox, waiting for that first strain of music. Even Alfred was leaning forward in anticipation. There was a fuzzy, squealing sound, and a distorted roar of indistinguishable almost-words, and Arthur thought the tape might be a dud. But then a crowd cheering and a familiar drum beat and guitar riff blasted in tinny glory through the speakers and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh my god, I love this song!" Katya exclaimed, setting her cup down and pulling Matt to the middle of the floor to dance with her.

 

_I want you to want me_

_I need you to need me_

_I'd love you to love me_

_I'm beggin' you to beg me_

 

Arthur smiled, watching the couple wiggle and strut, Matt with significantly less coordination. They were soon joined by Peter and Gilbert, who were jumping around in some sort of ring-around-the-rosy style half dance, half horseplay. Peter was laughing with abandon as Gilbert spun him around and around and around, pink-faced and gasping.

Draining his beer, Arthur looked over at Alfred, who had been unusually quiet, only to find him staring right back. He looked intensely troubled by something, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees, cupping his cheek and scowling over his hunched shoulders at Arthur.

"What?"

 

_I'll shine up my old brown shoes_

_I'll put on a brand new shirt_

_I'll get home early from work_

_If you say that you love me_

 

Alfred's expression softened into something that could have been a smile if it hadn't been interrupted by Liz abruptly sticking her hands in both their faces.

"C'mon, no wallflowers!"

She dragged them both toward the others, shimmying ridiculously and ultimately choosing Alfred when Arthur proved a less willing dance partner. Arthur was happy to stand on the edge of the flailing group, watching Alfred hop about with Liz for a few more moments before Katya cut in to trade her to Matt. Peter and Gilbert were still whirling and running around like fools, and even Ivan was clapping his hand against his thigh, swaying with the music.

An ache began to form in Arthur's chest as he observed the joy and abandon of the couples as they came together and separated, mixed themselves up and came back to their right partners again. How stupid to feel so alone when he was right on the edge of it all, when he could jump in at any second. But something kept him from giving in to the happiness, some barrier that warned it wasn't a good idea for him even if everyone else was having a wonderful time.

Arthur's breath was knocked away as Peter slammed into him from behind, twirling around him and grabbing his hands to force him into his game of jumping and spinning. He nearly lost his footing as Peter yanked him around, but the peals of unrestrained laughter pouring out of his little brother knocked away the bulk of Arthur's urge to sulk. He felt his own laughter come bubbling up, burning and aching in a different way as he jerked and spun around the floor, his surroundings blurred by speed and the tears pricking his eyes.

Everything turned into a smear of color and bodies as he spun and spun and spun until suddenly he wasn't attached to Peter any more and a different set of arms were caught around his middle. Arthur grabbed onto the solid body, righting himself as best he could until his vision stopped swimming.

There was Alfred, smiling down at him, red-faced and too close. The painful barrier from before struggled to pile itself back up as Arthur was torn between the urge to push Alfred off and sit down as far away as he could to catch his breath and the terribly exciting feeling of Alfred's hands on his waist.

 

_Feelin' all alone without a friend_

_You know you feel like dyin'_

_Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I,_

_See you crying'?_

 

"You good?" Alfred pulled him closer almost imperceptibly and any desire Arthur had to remove himself dissolved in an embarrassing instant of weakness.

"Perfect."

It felt too good. The human contact felt too good and the fact that it was attached to Alfred didn't help at all. Arthur gave up and Alfred seemed to feel it and suddenly they were dancing again, twisting and turning and acting like fools. Arthur was only tangentially aware of everyone else swirling around them. His only solid points of reference were Alfred's hands, hot and deliberate, on his side, his shoulder, in his own, guiding him around and around.

The song catapulted toward it's finish and Arthur was desperate to lurch forward again, exhausted and ready to be caught. But there was another crackling sound and a voice spoke squeakily over the music, young and bright.

_"Woo hoo! Happy anniversary, Ellie! I love you so much, baby, and I can't wait to see you tonight—"_

The tape stopped, Katya having run over to take it out. The group was silent, unsure how to process the stranger's words. Dead stranger, most likely. A human being with a whole life had made that tape and now they had it and he didn't. It was an intimate item, a personal gift, a record of a relationship that most likely didn't exist anymore, that had been abandoned, probably left in some car that Gilbert had picked over. Left on the side of the road, empty, stolen, and now it was here and they had all danced to it, pretending for a moment that everything was going to be alright. Arthur felt sick to his stomach, and looked at Peter. Thankfully, he didn't seem to understand why everything had stopped, and he yanked on Gilbert's arm for an answer.

"Why don't you go get another tape, buddy. Something you like. We'll check out the rest of this one later," Gilbert said finally, and locked eyes solemnly with Arthur before turning away.

Matt crossed over to Katya, who was still staring at the tape on the table, and put his arm around her, kissing her temple before leading her away. Roderich shook his head and left the hall as Liz began to clean everything up, the distraction destroyed and the party over.

"Someone should be on watch," Ivan said, excusing himself.

"Yeah," Alfred agreed after the hall door had already slammed behind him. "I should go take care of that fucker out front. Probably more now. We were being kinda loud."

Even knowing it wasn't his intent, there was a hint of disapproval or disappointment or _something_ in Alfred's words that hit Arthur heavily.

"I'll go with you."

"No, it's fine," Alfred said brusquely. "I need to— I'll just take care of it. It's no big deal."

Arthur swallowed thickly, building up the barrier again, kicking himself for thinking for even a moment that he didn't need it. "If you're sure."

"Yeah." Alfred turned to go, but then looked back.

Arthur realized that their hands were still connected, locked so tightly together that their grip on one another was causing red-ringed white indentations in the skin. They stayed holding hands far too strongly for a few more seconds, and then Arthur couldn't bear the contact any more. He pulled his hand away, stretching and shaking it a few times.

Alfred stepped back, then stepped again toward Arthur, placing a hand on his upper arm in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture. Arthur wasn't sure why Alfred thought he needed to be comforted. He did, but even Arthur couldn't figure out why.

When Arthur didn't brush off his touch, Alfred slowly moved his hand toward Arthur's face. That was a step too far, and Arthur recoiled, turning his head like something had been thrown at him.

"Yeah," Alfred repeated, and left the hall.

Arthur stood alone, and looked around the empty hall. The table was still covered in orange peels, and the boombox still had it's tape slot hanging open like a teasing, slack-jawed mouth. Arthur looked down at his hand again, skin mottled and itchy from being held too tight for too long, and tried to convince himself that he wished today had never happened.


	47. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zombie AU. Arthur ponders the ramifications of his interactions with Alfred earlier in the day. Which is only complicated by cold weather and bed sharing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Zombie AU that nobody asked for. I promise I'll cool it with this AU for a while. 
> 
> Anon on tumblr sent "cold" as a one word prompt. This chapter directly follows the "Dancing" chapter. 
> 
> Warnings: profanity, zombie related body/survival horror & gore.

 

The temperature had dropped rapidly by sundown. Warmth leached out of the ground around the church, leaving a clinging, filmy dampness that prickled Arthur's skin and made his bad mood worse. Whether anyone else felt the oppressive weight of the chill, he didn't know. He'd avoided them after the incident in the hall. Double shift on watch was a good excuse, even if it left him with too much time to think.

He couldn't get the song out of his head, even catching himself humming it a few times. Those few happy minutes before the party had been ruined replayed themselves over and over in his mind even as he actively fought to stop it. It was all a blur of Alfred's face, Alfred's hands, Alfred, Alfred, Alfred, and Arthur didn't know how to move past it, or if he even wanted to. What did he really expect to happen? What did he actually want to happen? There were no ready answers, and the confusing loop of thoughts started again, song picking up where it had left off.

The walkie talkie in Arthur's coat pocket crackled to life.

_"You guys wanna play 20 Questions or something?"_

Arthur exhaled a laugh in spite of himself, his breath a thick grey cloud against the black of the yard.

"No, Gilbert," he responded tersely, turning his face up toward the bell tower with a disapproving glare on the off chance Gilbert could see it.

There was no response, so Arthur continued his slow walk around the perimeter of the church yard, peering into the darkness past the chain link fence and wooden boards.

_"Okay, great. So, first question is for you, Arthur. What crawled up your ass and died?"_

Arthur was about to respond, jaw set in frustration, when a new crackling noise interrupted.

_"Can we please use these for necessary communication only, gentlemen? We're not made of batteries. Over."_

_"Oh great, mom's awake,"_ Gilbert replied. _"Hi, Roderich."_

"Sorry, Roderich," Arthur said, not meaning it, but knowing it was easier to apologize now than get lectured later. But with Gilbert, a lecture was still likely.

_"You're both due to come in anyway. It's 3 o'clock. Over."_

"Christ, already?" Arthur murmured to himself, suddenly twice as tired and heavy. He shivered, pulling his coat as tight around him as he could, and turned back toward the hall with a queasy feeling.

The snap of sticks and rustle of leaves made him whirl around, heart rate jumping and puffs of breath coming faster against the night. He smelled them before he could see them. It seemed impossible that he could never get used to that stench, that it hadn't become commonplace and undetectable with repeated exposure. But it still brought the reflexive wave of nausea, the urge to recoil and run from what his senses knew was death. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't lost that, an unexpected and inconvenient shred of humanity.

"Hold on, I've got company," he said into the walkie talkie, slowly walking toward the rustling. Now he could hear the mindless groaning, and make out the silhouette of two ragged biters limping toward the fence.

" _Need backup_?"

"It's only two. Not very fresh, by the look of it. I'll just be a moment."

" _Roger that._ "

They were up against the fence now, trying to wedge themselves into one of the gaps without the additional wooden plank reinforcements. It appeared to be a man and a woman, but it was nearly impossible to tell, clothing and skin torn to shreds, any living tone to their remaining flesh gone. They were awkward, stumbling and grappling against the fence and each other, desperate to get to Arthur. It was sick and sad.

Arthur got as near to the fence as he dared, lining up the sharpened fire poker he carried with one of the chainlink holes. There was no sense in wasting bullets or making so much noise, and he didn't think his knife had enough reach. It was an inelegant and brutal solution to an equally inelegant and brutal problem.

He was about to strike the woman straight through the forehead when he noticed something off about their hands. It was hard to tell at first because of their shuffling and bumping against each other, and the dark, but their wrists were tied together by several loops of rope. They appeared to be holding hands, almost. Their other hands were free, so it didn't seem likely they'd died prisoners. They must have tied themselves together.

Why? Had they been afraid of getting separated? Had one of them been sick or injured? A symbolic gesture? Or had one of them turned and the other couldn't let go? Arthur felt sick to his stomach, but in a hollow, empty way. There was no churning feeling or meager dinner threatening to come up. It was a vast and sweeping sickness that made him feel a thousand years old and a thousand times lonelier.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry this happened to you. At least you're together. And it will be over now."

He raised the poker again, taking a deep breath. The pair grunted and flopped against the fence, and the man lifted his hands clumsily to bang on the chainlink, raising the woman's hand with him. For a moment Arthur desperately wanted to leave them be, to go inside and hope they wandered off before anyone else saw them. But the clacking and gnashing of their teeth brought him back to reality and he struck the woman dead, skull giving way like an overripe fruit.

She dropped to the ground, and her mate stumbled to stay upright. He stared down at her for a moment then looked at Arthur, almost as if he understood what had happened, almost as if he felt the loss of her. Arthur struck him down.

They looked so much smaller, a crumbled heap of half body parts. In a way it was peaceful. In a way it was terrifying. Arthur rubbed the poker on a clump of grass and wiped his face clean of a suspicious dampness. His face stung from the cold.

"Okay. It's done. I'm coming in."

" _Good_ ," Roderich said. " _Katya's taking grounds. Liz is taking tower. I'm handing off to Ivan. Over._ "

There was another crackle and Arthur could faintly hear Gilbert breathing, inhaling twice as if he were about to say something, but stopping short. Finally he coughed and said, " _I'm good. I'll just stay up here._ "

" _You're going on six hours. That's our limit. Come in. Over._ "

_"Yeah, that's your limit, but I don't live here. Your rules mean shit. Besides, this is the time I normally take back home, so it's better for me anyway. Doesn't fuck up my schedule._ " There was another pause, again filled with the sound of Gilbert breathing. " _So let Liz sleep_."

Arthur didn't know if he should say something to break the tense silence, but before he could decide Roderich muttered a pointed " _fine_ " and disconnected.

The hall wasn't any warmer than outside. If anything it was colder, the tile floors and high ceilings impossible to fill with only body heat. Everyone had pushed their mattresses together and stacked every available blanket and towel over themselves in a futile attempt to keep the chill at bay. Their bodies were indiscernible lumps in all the cloth.

Arthur handed his gun and radio off to Katya, who was already pulling her boots on as Matthew watched, half asleep and visibly lovesick in his pile of clothing and blankets. Roderich was already beneath the blankets, back turned to the group and obviously awake. There was an empty space next to him, but Arthur didn't think he would get much sleep if he chose to rest there.

Arthur toed off his shoes and instantly regretted it as his feet touched the floor. He hissed and bounced, picking his way across the sleeping bodies. Liz sat up and tried to wiggle her way out of the mound of blankets she was sharing with Peter and Alfred, but Arthur gestured for her to stop.

"You're covered. Gil isn't coming in. "

"What?"

"He said he's fine, to let you sleep."

That only made Liz struggle harder to get standing, tripping and flailing as she pulled another sweatshirt over her head. She muttered something under her breath, unintelligible as she wound a scarf around and around her neck and mouth, and she stomped out of the hall, the door banging loudly behind her.

Everyone jumped at the sound except for Peter, so tightly rolled in his cocoon of blankets that all Arthur could see was the top of his head. It didn't take long for the group to settle again, soft snores starting up. Arthur still stood on the tile, cold creeping up his legs and making his knees ache. There was that ancient feeling again, out of body while simultaneously grounded to it.

"Want me to scoot over?"

Arthur blinked back to reality and looked down past Peter to find Alfred sitting half up and watching him.

"What?"

"So you can sleep. I'll scoot over. So you can be next to Peter."

He eyed the space between Alfred and Peter with a confusing mix of nerves and longing, and shook his head.

"No, I- it's fine. I'll just…" Arthur knelt down on the outer edge of the mattress, the cold making his fingers fumble at the blankets ineffectually.

"No, don't. It sucks on the edge. It's freezing," Alfred said, wriggling over to occupy the spot Arthur had been pawing at.

"And you won't freeze?"

"I won't complain about it as much as you will."

It took Arthur a second to realize he was being teased, and it caught him so off guard that his face twitched into something more grimace than smile. He nodded stiffly, and awkwardly shimmied himself into the vacancy between his brother and Alfred. An inexplicable anxiety scratched at the lining of his stomach and he found himself unable to move, staring up at the ceiling feeling hot and cold all at once.

"You good?"

"Yes. Thanks."

Alfred adjusted so he was on his back, too, his shoulder almost pressing into Arthur's. Arthur swallowed around a lump in his throat and pointed and flexed his feet. Alfred inhaled like he was about to say something, then didn't, letting the breath out in a slow, steady stream. Arthur hoped he wouldn't say anything about that afternoon, and also hoped he would. Some comment that would confirm or reject what Arthur had experienced up until the party had dissolved. Alfred took another breath, and Arthur held his.

"Peter held out as long as he could up on the couch. Argued with me and Liz until he started freezing his ass off and gave up. Funny kid."

Arthur turned his head to look at his brother, and noticed the thick ruff and leather of Alfred's jacket pressing up his cheek, sleeves so big and long on him that only the tips of his fingers showed, pink from cold. That touched Arthur in a way he couldn't process at the moment, so he simply pulled the blankets up over Peter even farther, smoothing his wayward blonde hair.

"He argued with you?"

"Well, not in so many words," Alfred said with the hint of a laugh, then caught himself and cleared his throat. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant in his… way—"

"I know what you meant. Thank you for looking after him."

"Hey, you did the same for Mattie."

Arthur could feel him turn to look at him, but he couldn't manage to return the look, opting to count the beams on the ceiling instead. Alfred didn't move, and Arthur's cheeks burned and his eyes started to water from the dryness of staring ahead for so long.

"Peter's a good kid," Alfred said finally, and went back to looking up as well.

"I know. I just wish—"

"I know. We all do. For everyone we love."

"Right."

They were quiet for a few minutes. Arthur felt Alfred relaxing next to him, breathing so slow that he thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. Arthur wasn't brave enough to check.

"God, it's fucking cold," Alfred blurted out suddenly.

"Freezing."

"You'd think it'd be better with us all packed in, but nope. Fuck. Maybe it would be better if we all got naked, like they do in movies and stuff."

Arthur didn't say anything, embarrassed at the way his mind raced at the thought.

"Sorry. Bad joke."

"No, I thought it was funny."

"You didn't laugh."

Arthur did laugh at that, caught off guard again by Alfred's way of teasing him. "We should be quiet."

"Right. Sorry. Goodnight."

Alfred rolled over onto his side, back to Arthur, and Arthur did the same. He closed his eyes without any intention of falling asleep, too ramped up. A chill crept down his spine underneath the blankets in the gap between him and Alfred, and he shivered. Arthur squirmed, trying to find a warmer spot, when suddenly he felt Alfred's back up against his, hot and solid.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

"Is this okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Yes."

Arthur was stiff and afraid to breath, but slowly, by degrees, they melted, muscles relaxing and pressing together.

There was hardly any privacy or shame in the way they lived as a group. Everyone had seen far too much of everyone else by pre-turn standards. It was inevitable. But this was different. There was a new intimacy in feeling the curve and twist of Alfred like this, even through layers and layers of clothing. Arthur wondered what it would be like if he had the courage to turn over and bury his face between Alfred's shoulder blades the way he wanted to, or what it would feel like if Alfred held him. That was a frightening line of tempting thinking.

Arthur's breaths were coming fast and shallow now, the cold air scorching his throat and burning his chest. It was half a happy panic, half the weight of the day, week, month, year, and all the realization that he didn't have to deal with it alone.

Alfred shifted, and reached for Arthur's hand behind him.

"Are you okay?"

The image of the dead couple tethered together flashed across Arthur's mind and knocked the breath out of him. He pulled his hand away, and felt Alfred tense and recoil against him.

"Sorry."

Arthur regretted it immediately, forcing the sorrow of the dead couple from his mind as he reached back and found Alfred's hand again, gripping it tight in the hopes of conveying what he couldn't trust his words to get right. Alfred returned the pressure, and Arthur used the steady rhythm of Alfred's breaths against his back to bring his own breathing back to normal.

They stayed holding hands, even once it got too sweaty and Arthur's shoulder ached from the bad angle. It was the last thing Arthur felt when sleep overtook him. It was still freezing, the air a knife in every breath. But Arthur felt warmer and safer than he had in as long as he could remember.


	48. Faint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his fears, Arthur gets roped into the school blood drive to impress Alfred. His secret crush complicates matters, leading to an embarrassing situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on tumblr asked for "faint" for a one word prompt. 
> 
> Warnings: blood donation and mentions of needles

“Hey! Look at you!”

Arthur couldn’t stop himself from flinching in surprise, which only made him panic about the needle in his arm. Not that he hadn’t already been panicking. He’d been so focused on not giving in to the temptation to look at the little tube carrying his blood away for fear he’d be sick that he hadn’t heard Alfred approach.

“Yes, look at me. I hate this,” he managed to sputter out, fighting the urge to twitch and fidget.

“But you’re doing great! And it’s for a good cause.” Alfred patted him on the shoulder and Arthur flinched again. This time it was only half about the needle. The rest, humiliatingly, was Alfred touching him.

Arthur wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of participating in the school blood drive if it hadn’t been Alfred’s pet project. For all his faults— and there were many— Alfred was unbelievably motivated when it came to helping people, and he had taken to the task of organizing the event with pure enthusiasm. Unfortunately for Arthur, that enthusiasm had carried over into the process of getting his classmates to sign up to give blood, and Arthur found himself in the awkward position of being more desperate to impress Alfred than he was scared of needles. And he was terribly scared of needles.

He looked around the gymnasium at all the other stations set up, the nurses flitting about, the students still waiting in line and filling out paperwork, and the ones already finished and nibbling on snacks and sipping juice. He smiled through his nerves, genuinely proud of Alfred.

“It’s a huge success, really. The student council couldn’t have done it without you.”

Alfred shook his head and scuffed his shoes against the floor, charming in his humility.

“Seriously, thank you for doing this. I know it’s a big phobia for you,” Alfred said, shifting from that grand, upbeat tone that Arthur had come to recognize was mostly performative, to the rarer, sincere, and nearly tender voice that made Arthur’s heart race. He was sure he’d be blushing, assuming he had any spare blood left to blush with. It felt like they’d been draining him forever.

“It’s fine. Like you said, good cause.”

Alfred smiled down at him, and Arthur thought he’d volunteer to be poked at a hundred more times if he could keep getting that smile in exchange. Maybe the blood loss was making him extra pitiful in his pining.

“Okay, honey, I think you’re all done,” said one of the nurses, and Arthur made the monumental mistake of looking down at the bag full of his blood she was examining.

“Oh. Good. Good. That’s good, great! I mean, it’s great, glad it’s done. Well, not because I don’t want to help, but I just—“

“Arthur, look at me,” Alfred said, and Arthur gratefully obeyed. Alfred crouched down to his level and patted his free hand, nodding to the nurse. Arthur didn’t even feel the needle come out, and barely registered the little cotton ball being taped to his arm.

“Hey, we match!” Alfred chirped, holding up his own arm, wrapped in the same teal tape.

The nurse gave Arthur the spiel about leaving the bandage on, not doing anything strenuous for the rest of the day, and getting a snack before he left. Arthur nodded along the entire time, feeling tingly and weird all over. Maybe it was the rush of overcoming his fear, or maybe it was the actual blood loss. Or maybe it was that Alfred was still touching his hand and put an arm around Arthur’s shoulders to steady him as he escorted him to the snack table at the end of the gymnasium.

Alfred poured him a cup of apple juice and gave him a packet of cheese and crackers. Arthur was surprised and secretly delighted when Alfred sat down with him instead of running off to attend to any of the many other students. He straddled the cafeteria table bench to face Arthur, grinning and leaning his cheek into his hand as Arthur nibbled and sipped self consciously. The tingly feeling increased until Arthur felt like he was made of static, but he couldn’t say it was a bad feeling.

Finally, Arthur was given the all clear to go back to class and he reluctantly stood to go. A rush of lightheadedness crashed down on him and he swayed, nearly stumbling over the bench as he tried to get his legs over it. He might have fallen flat on his face if Alfred hadn’t been there to catch him, steady hands gripping his shoulders and gently righting him.

“Whoa, are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you should eat something else.”

“Fine, fine. Thanks. Just stood up too fast,” Arthur slurred with an embarrassed giggle. He felt light and heavy, cold and hot all at once, dancing with static.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Alfred said, not sounding convinced. He didn’t let go of Arthur’s shoulders, instead trailing his hands down to just above his elbows. “Um. I was wondering…”

“Hmm?”

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Wha-? No, I don’t—“

“I mean, it’s Friday, and I was thinking maybe we could see a movie? If you wanted.”

Arthur’s sluggish brain didn’t make sense of the request for several dull heartbeats, but when it finally did, his eyes widened in shock. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet anymore and it took all his concentration to get his mouth moving to ask what he probably never would have dared if not for his current state.

“Are you asking me out? Like, on a date?”

Alfred smiled again, devastating as always, but now with a shyness that Arthur could barely handle.

“Yeah. That okay?”

Arthur’s heart rate skyrocketed, pounding in his ears and chest so hard he thought he might disintegrate. Black spots swam in front of his eyes and his head felt less like it was attached to his body, and more like a balloon on a long string, bobbing in a gentle breeze. A freezing sensation travelled from the tips of the his toes to the top of his head and Arthur found he could barely draw enough breath to squeak out “fine”.

The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling through a ring of heads hovering over him, legs crooked up over the bench.

“Give him some space!”, one of the nurses said, gingerly examining Arthur. “Can you talk?”

“I’m fine, just dizzy,” he replied, voice sounding strange in his ringing ears.

“Okay, well you stay here for a few minutes and then we’ll sit you up and get you feeling better. This happens to people sometimes, don’t be embarrassed,” she soothed, placing a folded up towel under Arthur’s head and nodding toward Alfred. “Good thing your friend was here to catch you.”

Arthur turned his head, wincing as his vision swam for a split second, and saw Alfred sitting on the floor next to him, holding his hand. They both tried to smile at each other, but Alfred looked too worried, and Arthur felt too woozy for either gesture to be comforting. Arthur suddenly recalled what had shocked him into fainting in the first place, and felt his heart start pounding again, mortified and thrilled. He reflexively squeezed Alfred’s hand, and Alfred looked down, so heartbreakingly earnest in his concern. As nice as it was to be worried about, Arthur needed his smile more.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“About what you said earlier, before I—“

“Don’t worry about it. Forget I said—“

“Pick me up at 7?”

Alfred blinked at him, taken aback. Then the smile was back, brilliant and warm, and Arthur’s heart foolishly leapt again.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He stroked a thumb gently across the back of Arthur’s hand, creating tingles very different from the earlier static that ran up Arthur’s arm. Alfred leaned down just enough to lower his voice. “But maybe we shouldn’t, if I have this strong of an effect on you.”

Somehow Arthur found the strength to get his hand free and smack Alfred’s arm, settling down when the nurse made a disapproving noise.

“I’ll do my best not to faint from your mere presence,” he muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes for good measure.

Alfred rolled his eyes right back, and bit his lower lip. Then he carefully reached down and brushed some of the hair off Arthur’s clammy forehead, saying, “And I’ll be there to catch you if you do.”

It was a miracle Arthur didn’t faint right on the spot again.


	49. "I'm Laughing at Clouds..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America has a cold, and his preferred remedy is old movie musicals. England's not sure they help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, technically this is what I call a "mini-prompt", which I usually keep exclusively on tumblr. But I haven't updated in a while, so I figured I'd post this and use it as an opportunity to promote myself. 
> 
> There are 35 more mini prompts on there that are tumblr exclusive, as well as 3 sentence fics and all sorts of things that don't get cross posted to anywhere else, including a very very very small selection of non-usuk stories. It's also where I take requests. 
> 
> So if you don't follow me, give it a thought. Same username.

_“What’re you going to sing, Miss Lamont?”_

“I love this part,” America exclaimed with a giggle that promptly turned into a congested gurgle.

He shifted with agitation, lifting his head up off of England’s lap just enough to cough– a horrible, wet sound. Obviously out of breath, he settled back down, engrossed once more in the television screen.

All England could do was rub his back soothingly, feeling how much he was burning up even through the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. America insisted he wasn’t sick, just that he didn’t “feel good”. There were hardly many reasons to these days, England supposed. It all added up, or bottling it away like America tended to do added up.

_“Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place…”_

He’d tried to mask it with his usual annoying cheerfulness, but even for all his super strength America hadn’t been able to keep up the facade for more than a couple of days. Coughing, sneezing, body aches, chills; it had all proven too much to cover up.

Not that England minded the chance to play nurse. It was a good excuse to be more outwardly doting than he was usually inclined, without the fear of being teased for it.  But it hurt his heart to see America miserable.

America laugh-wheezed again at the chaos on-screen, and England let himself be distracted by it for a moment. It had been difficult for England to sit through America’s little movie musical marathon and enjoy it, being so worried and trying so hard not to be overbearing in his attentions every time America so much as twitched. One film blended into the next, and though they were charming, England wasn’t nearly as gripped by them as America. At least he knew the words to most of the songs in _Singin’ in the Rain_.

“God, she was so beautiful,” America murmured as Debbie Reynolds turned her tear-stained face toward Gene Kelly.

England made a noise of agreement. This part of the plot was most predictable of all. Crying, running to one another, passionate embraces, romantic kisses, fade to black, credits; tidy and satisfying. That was what America loved about them, he’d confessed once. Everything always turned out all right in the end. Maybe not perfect, or totally happy, but right. England could understand the craving for that, at least.

“What now?” he asked when the DVD player returned to its menu.

“ _Mary Poppins_?”

“Seriously? The books are better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” America rolled onto his back so he could look up at England, “but Julie Andrews is the best. And she’s smokin’ hot in it.”

England scoffed and brushed wayward hairs off of America’s sticky, flushed forehead.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that’s the fever talking.”

“No way. Totally my type.”

“And what’s that?”

“Old fashioned, English, and kinda mean.”

A brief scuffle ensued, America laughing and dodging and wiggling about as much as he could lying down while England pinched and prodded at his sides with a pretend dour expression. Their play ended abruptly as America shot into a sitting position and hacked miserably into the elbow of his sweatshirt, struggling to catch his breath between fits. England gave him space, a gentle hand on his back the only comfort he could offer until the coughing subsided.

With a heavy breath, America slouched back into the sofa, head lolling on the top edge. He looked exhausted, but managed a smile despite it all, and England ached to kiss him. Instead he brushed the hair off his forehead again, this time trailing his touch down to his cheek.

“I’m okay,” America answered before England could ask. “It’s just—”

“I know.”

“Everything’ll get better.”

“I know.”

“It has to.”  

England nodded, unconvinced, but needing to agree. He gave America a final pat on the cheek, and America took his hand and kissed it, holding it briefly to his chest before letting it go.

“ _Mary Poppins_ it is, then,” England said, attempting a touch of cheerfulness in his voice as he busied himself with locating and putting in the DVD.

America sniffed and tried to stifle a few rumbly coughs.

“Could you make tea first?”

“Goodness, you must be feeling terribly if you want tea,” England teased.

America slouched down farther and put his feet on the coffee table with a grin.

“I was going to make a ‘spoonful of sugar’ joke, but I do actually want some.”

England rolled his eyes and smacked America’s feet as he walked past. But with a secret smile he stopped behind the sofa and placed a careful kiss on the top of America’s head.

He could hear America humming along to the opening credit music from the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional sniffle. England did his best to put aside his worry, now looking forward to that predictable ending, however at odds with reality it seemed.

_“Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cher-ee, a sweep is as lucky as lucky can be…”_


	50. Selfie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America gets some interesting pictures from England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi based off a tumblr anon prompt.
> 
> Also, I'm not closing this story because I'm done writing this kind of thing. I'll probably do a sequel/second collection , but 50 chapters felt like a good place to stop and start over.

The first picture was totally innocent.

Just a full body shot, taken in the bedroom mirror, a half smile half obscured by England’s phone as he stood in stereotypical selfie position. Shoes, pants, collared shirt, sweater. Nothing out of the ordinary other than that he’d sent America a selfie at all.

_Cute!_ , he texted back, adding an amount of emojis that he was sure would get him a swift and snarky response.

But several minutes passed and America’s phone screen stayed black and faintly fingerprint smeared, balanced on his thigh under the conference table. He was supposed to be paying attention, probably, but this was one of those times where listening was more likely to piss him off than anything else. It was safer to tune out his handlers at this point. He kind of missed the days when he could get away with dozing off and miss nothing. Right now he was missing England more, desperate for this meeting to end so he could get back to their vacation.

_are you going somewhere??_

He figured England must be headed out to amuse himself for a couple hours. Maybe he could sneak out early and they could meet up, have lunch, walk around the park, do stupid normal couple things like hold hands and argue about tv shows. America sighed and lightly tossed his phone onto the table, not caring if anyone noticed he had checked out of the conversation.

The screen lit up almost immediately, but it was another picture. This time it was of the bed, comforter smoother and neater than America ever bothered to make it, if he bothered to make the bed at all. A pair of shoes was on the floor, some socks almost folded on the bedding, a watch next to them.

_?????????_

America had barely sent his message when another picture came through. Same scene, but this time there was a sweater on the bed.

_I don’t get it_

Little grey dots appeared as England typed something on the other end, but they stopped and never became anything. America was about to ask if this was just England’s way of trying to get praise for having figured out the camera on his phone finally, but yet another picture popped up.

This selfie wasn’t in the mirror, but instead of England straight on. His collared shirt was unbuttoned lower than the frame of the picture, open enough for a few teasing inches of skin to be exposed. He was posed as if he was brushing his hand through his hair, his expression a mix of attempted casual seduction and an absolute awareness of how silly and manufactured it looked. It was still totally hot, though, America thought as he slowly slid his phone toward himself so he could cup and obscure the screen with his hands. England was trying something here, and knowing he was taking a risk and probably feeling a little self-conscious about it made it sexier still.

Having finally caught on to the game, America sent another message, sinking down into his chair, phone inches away from his face now.

_show me more_

The next picture took longer, and America wasn’t sure if it was England’s way of teasing him, using America’s impatient streak to his advantage, or if it was England being England and worrying over what to send. England wasn’t really one to send nudes or go for the whole sexting thing, not that America hadn’t tried. America could just imagine him awkwardly trying several poses and fretting over the picture until it was just right. Somehow the idea was just as erotic as it was silly. There was something hot about England making this effort specifically to please him.

A blush crept up the sides of America’s neck to his cheek as a picture finally loaded, and he scrunched up even more in his chair, glance darting around the room to make sure no one was paying attention to him. Of course they weren’t, and he went back to his ogling, biting an uncontrollable grin into his lower lip.

This was just a picture of England’s bare stomach, shirt open completely and pushed aside, his hand pulling the end of his belt free, blurred just slightly. It wasn’t inherently all that dirty, but something about it made America squirm and he squeezed his legs together.

Another bed picture arrived, belt and shirt now among the other items.

Pants soon followed.

_whats gotten into u???_

The underwear that ended up tossed on the bed were actually America’s. He had no idea why the thought of England wearing his underwear was so hot, but fuck it was, and now America was stuck in a meeting he didn’t want to be in with an erection he couldn’t do anything about. He could feel himself sweating, and he looked around the room again. A few people were arguing, and still no one seemed to notice he was halfway under the table trying to scoot down in his chair. He pressed a palm to the front of his pants and one-hand typed the most articulate thing he could manage.

_selfie_

The picture that followed was not at all what he wanted, but somehow just as good and twice as cruel. England had taken the picture over his shoulder in the full length mirror again, looking back at his own reflection with a look that communicated how fully he had begun to enjoy this. It should have been a good shot of his entire body, but he must have opened the curtains because the lighting was all blown out. He looked golden white and gorgeous, glowing like an angel, the faint outlines of the curves of hips, ass, and legs just barely there. It was beautiful and frustrating.

America wasn’t really interested in beautiful at the moment. He wanted dirty, nasty, gross, straight up sex. Enough with the implications and innuendos; he wanted the fact of England beneath him, begging to get fucked.

He stood up with enough force that his chair smacked into the wall behind him. No one even looked over, the argument having escalated to an overlap of obnoxious shouts. America shoved his belongings into his briefcase, and practically ran out of the room.

_on my way_ , he texted, then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat of the car as he sped out of the parking lot

The phone buzzed, and America ignored it until he was at a stoplight and couldn’t help himself.

It was England from mid chest up, clearly still naked, but now laying against the pillows on the bed, rumpled and pink looking, lips parted mid-exhale with the hint of a smile. Below the picture was the only word he’d sent throughout this whole game.

_Hurry._

America could focus on only one thing by the time he burst through the doors, and that was to get upstairs and undressed as quickly as possible. Clothes trailed after him in flung-off heaps until he was down to boxers and t-shirt as he opened the bedroom door. He found the room empty. Bed perfectly made, no neatly removed outfit, and no England.

_??????? the fuck_

He heard England’s phone chirp from downstairs and he followed the sound, bewildered and still fogged over with arousal. He probably looked like a dumbass, stomping around the house in his underwear with his phone in his hand like a divining rod, and an obvious boner.

And there was England, sitting on the couch in the living room, placidly thumbing through a magazine, fully dressed.

“What?” was all America could spit out.

England faked a surprised jolt well, and turned around to look at America, beaming.

“Oh, hello, darling,” he said, then cocked his head to the side and looked America up and down. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not upstairs.”

“No, I’m right here.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?” England cooed around a grin that America was all too familiar with and not always a fan of. He stood and tossed the magazine on the coffee table, walking slowly around the couch to stand in front of America, obviously showing off his outfit.

“You’ve got clothes on.” That sounded more whiny than America had meant, but he felt dazed and irritated and hot.

“Oh, that.”

England took America’s phone from where he was close to crushing it in his fist and threw it over his shoulder onto the couch. He fixed America’s hair gently, letting his hands trail down to rest on the back of his neck and stepped into him, close enough that America could feel the promise of heat off his body, but still too far to press close and touch. For all his fantasizing and laser focus earlier, America found he didn’t know what to do with his hands all of a sudden.

“Well, I thought it might be more fun to give you the chance to take them off yourself.”

The mess climbing up the stairs soon doubled, undisturbed for a few minutes until America was kicking their clothes out of the way as he rushed back downstairs for his phone.

Another photo session was in order.

 


End file.
